A Syrian Night

The night hung over Hebron all her stars,
Miraculous processional of flame,
From the red beacon of the planet Mars
To the faint glow of orbs without a name.

The jackals held wild orgy 'mong the hills,
From slope to slope their cries shrill echoing;
Until we yearned for the sweet peace that fills
The home-land valleys on the eves of spring.

About us we could mark the olives stir,
As the wind rose in frosty puffs and jets;
And far below, from out the purple blur,
We saw uprear the great mosque's minarets.

There, sepulchred for centuries untold,
The bones of Isaac and of Joseph lay;
And broidered cloths of silver and of gold
Were heaped and draped o'er Abraham's crumbled clay.

Strange, ah, how strange this shifting life and death!
Ne'er was the thought more deeply on us borne
Than where these patriarchs once drew vital breath,
Loved as we love, and mourned as now we mourn.

Others will come as we, and see, and pass,
And vainly strive to pierce beyond the bars;
But none shall read the mystery, alas,
Till night o'er Hebron cease to hang her stars!