And all the sound of singing was brought low.
Then, as the vision vanished in the hushed
Twilight that painted out the caravan,
Leaving the pilgrims but a burnûs-blur
On the drab canvas of the shore, a wail
Rose, and to them the Dreamer's last reply:
"The aimless spindrift mingles with the scats
Where suddenly the desert is the beach.
A low wind whimpers up and down the flats
Seeking some obstacle to lend it speech.