Classic Poem

From golden dawn to purple dusk,
Piled high with bales of smiles and tears,
The caravans are dropping down
Across the desert-sands of years.

And when the moonlight's kiss is sweet,
Still holds the trail a countless throng;
Betimes a weary camel halts
Before an oasis of song.

But always toward the beckoning West —
The sunset-land of heart's desire,
The caravans go down to Death
The king of Zidon and of Tyre.