“The east wind brushes the brow of the cliff
And the willow on the edge nods fresh and green.”
On seeing a picture of a great banquet among the fierce Turks of Central Asia, he wrote thus—
“The hunt is off in the wild dark hills,
And the moon is cold and gray,
While the tramping feet of a thousand horse
Ring on the frosty way.
In the tents of the Turk the music thrills
And the wine-cups chink for joy,
‘Mid the noise of the dancer’s savage tread