The World’s Tragedy

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