And the spices wherewith she scents her breasts—
She who has known such countless lovers
Yet rarely borne a city among her sands—
Thou comest as one from a night of love,
Thy breath is broken and hard,—
Bringing echoes of lonely things,
Vast and cruel, that the soft and golden sands
Buried beneath thin ripples so long ago.
Ah, Wind, thou hast given me lovely things,
The scent of a thousand flowers,