With broken staff and tattered shoon,
I wander slow from dawn to noon—
From arid noon till, dew-impearled,
Pale twilight steals across the world.
Yet sometimes through dim evening calms
I catch the gleam of distant palms;
And hear, far off, a mystic sea,
Divine as waves on Galilee.
Perchance through paths unknown, forlorn,
I still may reach an Orient morn;