You, Tschatir Dagh, Crimea's bright-masted ship!
World-altar,—minaret—the place where dip
Down stairs from golden Heaven for the feet!
You guard the door of God in splendor meet,
Like Gabriel with holy sword on hip;
In bright mist mantled from the toe to lip,
Tour turban set with alien stars and sweet.
If winter rule the world, or summer's sun,
If Giaour rage about, or winds are wild,
Above them, Tschatir Dagh, you, changeless one,
Are like to Allah, pure and undefiled;
Aloft you tower from out the lowly sod
To give to men again the will of God.