A little while...." Slave Obeidullah raised
Himself and looked ahead with shining eyes:
"The moon is faint. A dust-cloud swirls.
Therein I see dim marching hosts:
Strange embassies and dancing girls,
Spice-caravans and pilgrims. Ghosts
Rise thick from this else fruitless plain,
A waste that every season chars.
Yet teeming centuries lie slain
And trodden in the road to Fars.