From his home in an eastern bungalow,
In sight of the everlasting snow
Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
Thus wrote my friend:
“I had traveled far
From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
“And once, when the daily march was o’er,
As tired I sat in my tented door,
Hope failed me, as never it failed before.