And now I face the sudden pelting rains
On some lone Alpine slope.
Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,
I saunter, and the merchants at the doors
Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,
And curved knives of the Moors;
Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;
What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?
Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates
The camels make their moan.