Lightning: and, momently, the silhouette,

flat on the far horizon, comes and goes

of that night-haunting city; minaret,

dome, spire, all sharp while yet the levin glows.

Day knows it not; whether fierce noon-tide fuse

earth’s rim with sky in throbbing haze, or clear

gray softness tinge afresh the enamell’d hues

of mead and stream, it shows no tipping spear.

Night builds it: now upon the marbled plain

a blur, discern’d lurking, ever more nigh;

now close against the walls that hem my reign

a leaguer-town, threatening my scope of sky.

So late I saw it; in a misty moon

it bulk’d, all dusky and transparent, dumb

as ever, fast in some prodigious swoon:

its battlements deserted — who might come?

— ay, one! his eyes, ‘neath the high turban’s plume,

watch’d mine, intent, behind the breast-high stone:

his face drew mine across the milky gloom:

a sudden moonbeam show’d it me, my own!