II 
 
THE WHITE WIND 
 
A bare volcanic desert.  A foul lake stagnant in the distance. 
A crazy hovel on the edge of the squalid village.  The clamour of 
Syrian dogs.  A young girl stealing through the shadows of the 
moonless night, craftily. 
 
THE GIRL 
 
They have not stirred. 
I am unseen, unheard. 
Now for some honey of note 
Plucked from the black lion’s throat ! 
There is no moon :  earth is too still. 
A heat, yet bitter chill, 
Is in the air, the windless air. 
O for a breath of snow-wind on 
The crest of Lebanon ! 
I would that boy that laughed