MATTHEW ARNOLD
Mares' milk, and bread
Bak'd on the embers. all around
The boundless waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starred
With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
And flag-lcav'd iris flowers.
Sitting in his cart
He makes his meal: before him, for long miles,
Alive with bright green lizards,
And the springing bastard fowl,
The track, a straight black line,
Furrows the rich soil here and there
Clusters of lonely mounds
Topp'd with rough-hewn,
Grey, ram-blear'd statues, overpeer
The sunny Waste.
They see the Ferry On the broad, cJay-ladcn Lone Chorasmian stream thereon, With snort and strain, Two horses, strongly swimming, tow The ferry-boat, with woven ropes To either bow
Firm-harness'd by the mane a Chief, With shout and shaken spear Stands at the prow, and guides them but astern, The cowering Merchants, in long lobes, Sit pale beside their wealth Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, Of gold and ivory, Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, Jasper and chalcedony,
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