The Prisoner

Muezzins' calls have ceased. The greenish sky
Is fringed with gold and purple in the West;
The crocodile now seeks the mud for rest,
And hushed to stillness is the Flood's last cry.

On crossed legs, smoker-wise, with dreamy eye,
The Chief sits mute, by haschisch fumes oppressed,
While on the gangia's rowing bench with zest
Their bending oars two naked negroes ply.

Jocund and jeering, in the stern-sheets where
He scrapes harsh guzla to a savage air,
An Arnaut lolls with brutal look and vile;

For fettered to the boat and bleeding thence,
An old sheik views with grave and stupid sense
The minarets that tremble in the Nile.