Constantinople - Dhji-Han-Ghir. For H.N.

    For years it had been neglected,
    This wilderness garden of ours,
    And its ruin had shone reflected
    In its pools through abandoned hours.
    For none had cared for its beauty
    Till we came, the strangers, the Giaours,
    And none had thought of a duty
    Towards its squandering flowers.

    Of broken wells and fountains
    There were half a dozen or more,
    And, beyond the sea, the mountains
    Of that far Bithynian shore
    Were blue in the purple distance
    And white was the cap they wore,
    And never in our existence
    Had life seemed brighter before!

    And the fruit-trees grew in profusion,
    Quince and pomegranate and wine,
    And the roses in rich confusion
    With the lilac intertwine,
    And the Banksia rose, the creeper,
    Which is golden like yellow wine,
    Is surely more gorgeous and deeper
    In this garden of mine and thine.

    And the little bright flowers in the grasses,
    Cyclamen, daffodil,
    Are crushed by the foot that passes,
    But seem to grow thicker still;
    In the cool grey fig-tree's shadows
    They grow at their own free will,
    In the grass as in English meadows,
    On the slope of an English hill.

    Is it best, when the lone flute-player
    Wanders by with his strange little tune
    And the muezzin sings out for prayer
    Thrice daily his Arabic rune:
    Once, when the sunset has faded,
    Once in the brilliant noon,
    Or once in the daybreak, rose-shaded.
    A farewell to the dying moon?