 | My Sonnets |  |
BUCKHARDT READING ROBINSON CRUSOE TO HIS ARABS IN THE DESERT.
Silence sat throned in darkness—not a soundBroke the deep slumber of the starry night,
Save that, at intervals, lost to the sight
In the deep gloom that seemed to press around,
Some courser, neighing, made yet more profound
The stillness of the Desert; fitful light
Shot up from the red fire, and lit the white,
Enfolded, tent at times; upon the ground
Sat one, who, from a far-off, western, land,
Had journeyed, and had donned, a Frank no more,
The sheepskin and the turban; on the sand,
Half hidden, lay wild swarthy forms, that wore
The Bedouin's garb: he read, aloud, the book,
And the blaze, streaming up, showed joy in each dark look.
November 16th, 1842.
| My Sonnets | |