A Prayer Carpet

I know not when in Daghestan
He lived, the skillful artisan
Who wove, in some mysterious way,
This fabric where the colors play
Across the woof in rainbow chase,
Or meet and link and interlace.

Nor do I know what suppliant knees
Once pressed these yielding symmetries,
The while the turbaned brow was turned
Toward Mecca, and the soul that yearned,
Borne by the rapt muezzin cry,
Soared, bird-like, up the tranquil sky.

But this I know, — foot ne'er shall press
Its worship-hallowed loveliness,
For still about it dumbly clings
A subtle sense of holy things,
And woven in the meshes there
Are strands of vow and shreds of prayer.

With kindling morning beams the sun
Its blended beauty shines upon;
The mosque domes catch the rays, and lo,
In loitering lines the camels go!
A fountain flings a prismy jet;
A palm-tree cuts a silhouette.

But when night lids the eye of day,
And sunset glories fade away,
My fancy shapes a fervent man
From shadows on the Daghestan.
Thus, in its compass small, I see
The Orient in epitome!