And swept the Libyan waste, across

To far Somali-land.

His voice was thick with the drouth of death

And smote the earth as a burning breath,

Or as a curse which Allah saith

Unto a demon-band.

The caravan from the oasis

Of palm-engirt Kûrkûr

Shuddered and couched in shaken heaps,

The horror to endure.

Its mighty Sheik, like a soul in Hell

Who longs for the lute of Israfel,

[Pg 51]

Longed for the trickle of Keneh's well,

Imperishably pure!

Three days he longed, and the wind three days

About him whirled the shroud.

Then did a shrill dawn bring the sun—

And a gaunt vulture-crowd.

A few bleak bones on the Desert still

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