William Wetmore Story

On the Desert

    ALL around,   
    To the bound   
    Of the vast horizon’s round,   
All sand, sand, sand—   
All burning, glaring sand—           
    On my camel’s hump I ride,   
    As he sways from side to side,   
    With an awkward step of pride,   
And his scraggy head uplifted, and his eye so long and bland.   
 
    Naught is near,           
    In the blear   
    And simmering atmosphere,   
But the shadow on the sand,   
The shadow of the camel on the sand;   
    All alone, as I ride,           
    O’er the desert’s ocean wide,   
    It is ever at my side;   
It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee, or if I stand.   
 
    Not a sound,   
    All around,           
    Save the padded beat and bound   
Of the camel on the sand,   
Of the feet of the camel on the sand.   
    Not a bird is in the air,   
    Though the sun, with burning stare,           
    Is prying everywhere,   
O’er the yellow thirsty desert, so desolately grand.   
 
    Not a breath   
    Stirs the death   
    Of the desert, nor a wreath           
Curls upward from the sand,   
From the waves of loose, fine sand,—   
    And I doze, half asleep,—   
    Of the wild Sirocs that sweep   
    O’er the caravans, and heap           
With a cloud of powdery, dusty death, the terror-stricken band.   
 
    Their groans   
    And their moans   
    Have departed, but their bones   
Are whitening on the sand—           
Are blanching and grinning on the sand,   
    O Allah! thou art great!   
    Save me from such a fate,   
    Nor through that fearful strait   
Lead me, thy basest servant, unto the Prophet-land.