Gilding the foam of distant seas—
And humbly then I bowed my neck
And sank forlornly to my knees
To swab the blooming deck;
A wealth of flaming pageantries,
When, in a dusty Indian fort,
I went to early morning jerks,[1]
Cursing the sun and all his works
And dripping perspiration by the quart;
In Egypt, too, a pallid glow