The Gateway of Ispahan

In the arched gateway of fair Ispahan,

Where shadows all day long in ambush lurk

Ready to steal abroad at nightfall, sits

Omar, the storyteller. [On his breast,

White as spun-glass, his hoary beard flows down

Until it hides his girdle; his deep eyes

Like cave-set pools in gleaming blackness shine;

His voice is mellow as a drop which falls,

Pure liquid music, in a cistern hewn

From out the living rock.] Around him sit

The chief men of the city, they that be

Princes and potentates of Ispahan,

All listening tireless to the tales he tells.

As there they sit at ease, lapped in delight,

Smoking long, fragrant pipes, and nodding grave

Their approbation with high dignity,

The doleful camels burdened pass, the train

Of desert-faring caravans; and veiled

The women walk in unseen loveliness;

While orient lights and perfumes and soft airs

Give to each sweet romance its setting fit;

And each who hears, himself may haply be

Actor in tale as strange as that he lists.

Through the long afternoon like fountain-fall

Runs on the tale till the dim air is sweet

With music of its murmurous syllables,

The liquid, melting cadences which drop

From Omar's lips like honey from the comb.

Spell-bound sit they who hear; [while tales like these

Old Omar tells;] and long the shadows grow

Of the tall camels passing and of slaves

Who watch their masters, envying their ease

In the cool gateway of fair Ispahan.