have passed away.
“Here in the quiet,
here in the cool,
even pain, even sorrow
are beautiful.
“And the voice of the poet
lifts and lingers
at one in the dark
with the older singers.”
“As I feared,” said the merchant, raising his head from his silken and tasselled pillow, “the fellow is a poet. I must cope with this.” Thereupon he lifted the flap of his embroidered tent, and in a sleeping suit, of which the radiant texture did not conceal the irregular contours of his frame, with one arm behind his back, strode across the sand to where, in a patch of shadow, the poet was crooning.