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.