Classic Poem

Behind the hills the sun has set:
The shadows on the valleys fall:
From every rocky minaret
Muezzins of the mountains call
The faithful of the land to prayer,
In the cool golden evening air.

The high muezzins, wind, and star,
Call through the twilight clear and shrill:
In street, and meadow, and bazaar
The voices of the world grow still,
And we can almost hear the sound
Of souls salaaming to the ground.