Classic Poem

What bring ye me, O camels, across the southern desert,
The wan and parching desert, pale beneath the dusk?
Ye great slow-moving ones, faithful as care is faithful,
Uncouth as dreams may be, sluggish as far-off ships,—
What bring ye me, O camels?

‘Gold,—gold like sunshine, saving that it warms not;
And rarest purple bring we, as dark as all the garnered
Bloom of many grape-vines; and spices subtly mingled
For a lasting savor: the precious nard and aloes;
The bitter sweet of myrrh, like a sorrow having wings;
Ghostly breath of lilies bruised—how white they were!—
And the captive life of many a far rose-garden.
Jewels bring we hither, surely stars once fallen,
Torn again from darkness: the sunlit frost of topaz,
Moon-fire pent in opals, pearls that even the sea loves.
Webs of marvel bring we, broideries that have drunken
Deep of all life-color from a thousand lives,—
Each the royal cere-cloth of a century.
Speak, what wouldst thou more?’

All this dust, these ashes, have ye brought so far?
All these days, these years, have I waited in the sun?
I would have had the wingèd Mirage beyond the desert.