Past English evening scents and sounds, Past English church-bells ringing, The Turkish watchman on his rounds, The Turkish pedlar singing Through narrow streets above the sea "Leblebidji! leblebidji," Will surely pierce a ghostly way, The music underlying, And in the shades of falling day As in the distance dying, A little call will come to me, "Leblebidji!" ... * Little white beans THE MUEZZIN ABOVE the city at his feet, Above the dome, above the sea, He rises unconfined and free To break upon the noonday heat. 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!" Suddenly waking the silent night, Suddenly breaking the sleeping calm, The long, far, wailing alarm, And the watch-tower startles a warning light. As a torch passed from hand to hand, As a beacon springing from hill to hill, The cry draws nearer though distant still, And the watch throws it on from stand to stand, And the voices rise as a tempest far, As the swell of waves on a rocky shore, Each rumbles louder than before, "Yanghin var! yanghin var!" And as the angel's unpausing feet, The angel bearing the wrath of the Lord, The angel bearing the flaming sword, The voice passes onward below in the street. Faintly it travels again from afar, And as an echo of terror past The wind from the Bosphorus bears the last Yanghin var. ... * Fire! MORNING IN CONSTANTINOPLE SHE has an early morning of her own, A blending of the mist and sea and sun Into an undistinguishable one, And Saint Sophia, from her lordly throne Rises above the opalescent cloud, A shadowy dome and soaring minaret Visable though the base be hidden yet Beneath the veiling wreaths of milky shroud,