The Slave
In purple haze the sun has set,
A tuft of palms, a Minaret,
Rise clear against the sky.
The silence of the scented air
Stirs to a sense of evening prayer
At the Muezzin's cry.
What care have I, that yesterday
I led thee as a slave away
From Maroc's market-place?
Are we not all the slaves of love?
The very stars that wheel above
Are bound by time and space!
I struck the fetters from thy hands
Only to forge thee stronger bands;
Leastways, 'twas my desire
To hold thy captive soul to me,
Even as mine is chained to thee,
By links of passionate fire.
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