He ceased -- and, slowly rising o'er the deep, A faint song chimed, grew clearer, till at last A golden horn of light began to creep Where the dumb ripples sweep, Making the sea one splendor where it passed. A golden boat! The bright oars rested soon, And the prow met the sand. The purple veils Misting the cabin fell. Fair as the moon When the morning comes too soon, And all the air is silver in the dales, A gold-robed princess stepped upon the beach. The fisher knelt and kissed her garment's hem, And then her lips, and strove at last for speech. The waters lapped the reach. "Here thy strength breaks, thy might is nought to stem!" He cried at last. Speech shook him like a flame: "Yea, though thou plucked the stars from out the sky, Each lovely one would be a withered shame -- Each thou couldst find or name -- To this fire-hearted beauty!" Wearily The genie heard. A slow smile came like dawn Over his face. "Thy task is done!" he said. A whirlwind roared, smoke shattered, he was gone; And, like a sudden horn, The moon shone clear, no longer smoked and red. They passed into the boat. The gold oars beat Loudly, then fainter, fainter, till at last Only the quiet waters barely moved Along the whispering sand -- till all the vast Expanse of sea began to shake with heat, And morning brought soft airs, by sailors loved. And after?... Well... The shop-bell clangs! Who comes? Quinine -- I pour the little bitter grains Out upon blue, glazed squares of paper. So. And all the dusk I shall sit here alone, With many powers in my hands -- ah, see How the blurred labels run on the old jars! Opium -- and a cruel and sleepy scent, The harsh taste of white poppies; India -- The writhing woods a-crawl with monstrous life, Save where the deodars are set like spears, And a calm pool is mirrored ebony; Opium -- brown and warm and slender-breasted She rises, shaking off the cool black water, And twisting up her hair, that ripples down, A torrent of black water, to her feet; How the drops sparkle in the moonlight! Once I made a rhyme about it, singing softly: Over Damascus every star Keeps his unchanging course and cold, The dark weighs like an iron bar, The intense and pallid night is old, Dim the moon's scimitar. Still the lamps blaze within those halls, Where poppies heap the marble vats For girls to tread; the thick air palls; And shadows hang like evil bats About the scented walls. The girls are many, and they sing; Their white feet fall like flakes of snow, Making a ceaseless murmuring -- Whispers of love, dead long ago, And dear, forgotten Spring.