Naught is near,
In the blear
And the simmering atmosphere,
But the shadow on the sand,
The shadow of the camel on the sand;
All alone as I ride
O'er the desert's ocean wide,
It is ever at my side;
It haunts me, it pursues me, if I flee or if I stand.
Not a sound
All around
Save the paddled heat and bound
Of the camel on the sand
Of the feet of the camel on the sand.
Not a bird is in the air,
Though the sun, with burning stare,
Is prying everywhere,
O'er the yellow thirsty desert, so
Desolately grand.
—William Wetmore Story.
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