For thirty days the caravan trailed on behind the merchant’s foal,
Through Persia and through Turkestan, the city of Irkutsk their goal;
They passed the fruitful hill-girt lands where dwelt the fair-skinned Grecian race,
And came into the wilder place, and sighted vagrant Cossack bands
That wandered with their flocks and herds, and trafficked with the train of Kurds;
They stirred the ghost of Tamerlane, who swept that way with Tartar hordes,
The ghosts of dead barbarian lords, the Asiatic hurricane;
They crossed the mighty road that runs from Moscow through to China’s wall,
And trod the path of nomad Huns and knew Siberia’s white pall
When fields of Persian asphodel were visions of a distant day
And boundless snow around them lay, and noiseless snow for ever fell,
Where soon the fleeting day was done, and on the hard horizon low
They saw the scarlet ball of sun divided by the ridge of snow
Sink down in skies incarnadine; and still with their disjointed gait
And nursing their malignant hate, the camels kept unbroken line.
When yet a hundred miles or more stretched out between them and their goal
The merchant riding on before drew rein on his Circassian foal
And called a halt with lifted hand as he had done unfailingly
Each night since the monotony began with that unvaried land.
The dusk was suddenly alive as shouting voices passed the word,
And all the drowsy train was stirred with movement like a shaken hive.
The master merchant stiff from cramp was calling for his saddle flask,
As each to his accustomed task ran swiftly in the growing camp.
A tent like an inverted bell, all scarlet with the dyes of Tyre,
Was lifted rapidly and well, and like a torch the kindled fire
Destroyed the night with leaping tongue, and in a circle round the glow
Men shovelled back the melting snow, and skins and Khelim rugs were flung—
And unforgotten were the needs of water-bullocks standing by
Whose brows are stained with orange dye, whose horns are looped with turquoise beads.
The pariah dogs that slink and prowl secured their meat with furtive growl,
And one by one the camels bent complaining to their warty knees
And grumbled at the men that went to loose their girths and give them ease.
The merchant brooded silently on avaricious visions bright
And listened to the revelry his men were making in the night.
For one, a young and favourite Kurd, a mongrel child of the bazaar,
Whose voice was like a singing bird, was striking on a harsh guitar—
I know a Room where tulips tall
And almond-blossom pale
Are coloured on the frescoed wall.
I know a River where the ships
Drift by with ghostly sail
And dead men chant with merry lips.
I know the Garden by the sea
Where birds with painted wings
Mottle the dark magnolia Tree.
I know the never-failing Source,
I know the Bush that sings,
The Vale of Gems, the flying Horse.
I know the Dog that was a Prince,
The talking Nightingale,
The Hill of glass, the magic Quince.
I know the lovely Lake of Van;
Yet, knowing all these things,
I wander with a Caravan,
I wander with a Caravan!
The cold moon rose remotely higher, insensibly the voices hushed,
And men with wine and laughter flushed were sleeping all around the fire,
Till one alone sat on erect, his ready gun across his knees,
The sentry of the night elect, guardian of sleeping destinies.
The water-bullocks lay as dead; the dogs drew near with noiseless tread,
And huddled in a loose-limbed heap beside the fire, and through their sleep
They twitched at some remembered hunt; the merchant in his sheepskin rolled
Within the tent saw dreams of gold; the camels with uneasy grunt
And quake of their distorted backs slept on with loathing by their packs.