He turns around the parapet,
Black-robed against the marble tower;
His singing gains or loses power
In pacing round the minaret.
A brother to the singing birds
He never knew restraining walls,
But freely rises, freely falls
The rhythm of the sacred words.
I would that it to me were given
To climb each day the muezzin's stair
And in the warm and silent air
To sing my heart out into Heaven.
THE GREEK HAN
A SUNNY court with wooden balconies,
And wool hung out to dry in gaudy skeins,
A fountain, and some pigeons murmuringly
Picking up yellow grains.
Pass through a little tumble-down green door
Into the dark and crowded shop; the Turk
Crouching above the brasier, smiles and nods;
'Tis all his daily work.
Here marble heads and alabaster jars,
Fragments of porphyry and Persian tiles,
Lie heaped in ruin, and at our dismay
The old Turk shrugs and smiles,
And sips his coffee, reaching out a hand
To throw upon the brasier at his feet
A handful of dried herbs, whose sudden smoke
Rises up incense-sweet.
YANGHIN VAR*
AS the baying of wolves from afar,
Borne on the wind from the Golden Horn
A cry in the distance, long-drawn,
"Yanghin var! yanghin var!"