 | The book of the East |  |
187
[“Come unto these yellow sands”]
“Come unto these yellow sands,”Not to sing a fairy song,
As when summer nights are sweet,
Keeping time with flying feet;
But to wring your hands,
Now the nights are long,
And the winds of winter blow,
Whirling round the drifts of snow,
Over him who lies below,
Buried (God have mercy!) in the yellow sands.
| The book of the East | |