Page:Writings of Oscar Wilde - Volume 01.djvu/67

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53
O lonely Himalayan height,  Gray pillar of the Indian sky, Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight,  Our wingèd dogs of Victory?
The almond groves of Samarcand,  Bokhara, where red lilies blow, And Oxus, by whose yellow sand  The grave white-turbaned merchants go:
And on from thence to Ispahan,  The gilded garden of the sun, Whence the long dusty caravan  Brings cedar and vermilion;
And that dread city of Cabool  Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet, Whose marble tanks are ever full  With water for the noon-day heat:
Where through the narrow straight Bazaar  A little maid Circassian Is led, a present from the Czar  Unto some old and bearded khan,—
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