The singing caravan in chorus flowed
Past the clay porticoes of his abode.
She came, he saw, was conquered—like a puppet
Drawn to the window, to the street and up it,
Forth to the desert, leaving in the lurch
His pleasant wars and policies to search
For what? He knew not. Haply for the truth
Whose home is open eyes, not dreams or youth.
But this he dimly knew, that something strange,
Beauty, had come within his vision's range;