XVI
THE ARGUMENT OF THE SCEPTIC
Beside the Sufis ran a whited wall.
Two cypress-trees peeped over from the waist,
Stiff, motionless as toys. Among their spires
A lithe voice mounted and leaned down again:
"Come, for to-night the hills are all white marble
Under a sapphire dome,
Where bats scrawl riddles which the bulbuls garble
For owls to answer. Come.
"The air is sick of moon-discoloured roses,