And At Dawn One Wakes
With Hope And Hears The Songs Of The Dawn; And At Noon One Dreams Of
The happiness to come; and at sunset one is swept away on the gold
into the heart of the golden
World; and at night one looks at the
stars, and each star is a twinkling hope. Soft are the airs of Luxor;
there is no harshness in the wind that stirs the leaves of the palms.
And the land is steeped in light. From Luxor one goes with regret. One
returns to it with joy on dancing feet.
One day I sat in the temple, in the huge court with the great double
row of columns that stands on the banks of the Nile and looks so
splendid from it. The pale brown of the stone became almost yellow in
the sunshine. From the river, hidden from me stole up the songs of the
boatmen. Nearer at hand I heard pigeons cooing, cooing in the sun, as
if almost too glad, and seeking to manifest their gladness. Behind me,
through the columns, peeped some houses of the village: the white home
of Ibrahim Ayyad, the perfect dragoman, grandson of Mustapha Aga, who
entertained me years ago, and whose house stood actually within the
precincts of the temple; houses of other fortunate dwellers in Luxor
whose names I do not know. For the village of Luxor crowds boldly
about the temple, and the children play in the dust almost at the foot
of the obelisks and statues.
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