Is the Orient.”
“Nay, I do not dread the Orient,”
Kazbek, answering, jeers;
“There mankind has spent in slumber
Just nine hundred years.
Look, where ’neath the shade of plane trees
Sleepy Georgians gape,
Spilling o’er their broidered clothing
Foam of luscious grape!
See, ’mid wreaths of pipe-smoke, lying