And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,
The camels crowding close together
At another soft command.
Our lad making good his jump,
The populace would grant our greater skill;
A goatskin filled with wine,
And honey mixed with melted butter
Was offered us within the caravanserai.
Then we moved out beyond the town
And pitched our tents of camels' hair,
Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes
Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,
I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe
Lest my Christian tongue betray me)
Trudging behind with all the salary--
Chasing the desert after two new sheep,
Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.
Now twice each day within the Hippodrome
I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,
Strive to make the thousands laugh;
And when my act is done
There comes the tread of camels' feet,
Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,
Who tumble, jump and build pyramids
Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert....
When I saw Slayman last
He was a boy
Chasing the sheep with me
Beneath Morocco's moon.
Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway?
In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?
PRE-EMINENCE
I once knew a man
Who'd met Duse,
(Or so he said)
And talked with her;
As she came down a windy street
He turned a corner
Headlong into her.
"I am so sorry," Duse said,
"I was looking at the stars."
My envy of that man
Withstood the years
Until one day I met a Dane
Who'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:
This man, with head bowed to the wind,
Was walking up a Stockholm way
When 'round the corner came the seer,
And he plumped into him.
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