Tent, My Dearest Tent

My soul is like a wandering Arab
Who solitary brings
His house among the desert stars
On hill or plain, by palm or brook
And mid the loneliness of ways
Thus to his comfort sings:

Among the Universe's winds
Tent, my dearest tent
Thou dost house a quiet breath,
A soft breath, a little breath—
A leaf upon the tree
Making a quiet lament.

Leaf, thou art a rib of wind
That trembles through the sky
Glimmering into a grosser dress
A dress of flesh, a body—
O Universal gale of life
Thy fluttering tent am I.

And, light of Moon and Sun,
Thou, Foliage and Snows,
Fading upon this star where I
Were else dark, pitched in dark—
Bright fabric of my walls,
That in the darkness blows!

Amidst the wilderness of Space
Thy glimmer may be spent
But there are other lights that burn
Mid other hills and other snows.
And somewhere once more shall be pitched
Tent, my dearest Tent!

My soul is like a wandering Arab
Who crossing hill and plain
Under night's glittering suns shall place
His tent of life, his fluttering sign;
And when Dawn rises on the world
It shall have gone again.