Travellers to Blest Araby have told
Of sands that grow frankincense, streams of gold;
Strange legends run of bulls with fire for breath,
Dragons sowing plains with myriad teeth,
Till in the place of harvest’s yellow ears
A battle field gleamed with steel helms and spears.
Leave me the land I live in, where kind earth
Yields real grain, a hundredfold at a birth;
And purple grapes of every laden vine
Laugh with the girls that tread them into wine.