Painted me with dye made from the chestnut hulls,
Laughing the while about the potency of juice
That would prove armour ’gainst some zealot’s scimitar. 
Four camels made our caravan
And these we also used for “props.” 
When we played a Morocco town
The chieftain met us at the hamlet’s edge
Asked of Abdullah what his mission there,
Then let us enter
He leading our caravan to the chieftain’s hut,
Where we sat upon the sand
The thirty odd of us
Surrounded by as many lesser chiefs. 
The hookah solemnly was passed around
And then the hamlet chief would speak;
“Stranger, why have you forsaken home
And drawn believers after you,
You bear no spices, oil, or woven cloth,
No jewels nor any merchantry?”

And then Abdullah: 
“True, Allah’s precious son,
We trade in naught men feed their bellies on
But we have wares to thrill brave men,
To make your youth see what use bodies are,
To make your women blush
That they have no such men.”

“What are these magic wares?”

“Why we have here an Arab youth
Who seems possessed of wings,
Jumping three camels in a row.”

“So!  In this very village there’s a lad
Who jumps four camels
With half the wind it takes you, telling of your boy.”

Scoff followed boast and back again
Until the chief arose,
Saying to the lesser chiefs
That they should call the local tribe
To meet beside the caravanserai
Before another sun went down
To see if these vain wandering men
Could do one half the deeds they boasted.

So we met at sundown,
Our brown men stripped
Except for linen clouts. 
We tumbled, jumped, made human pyramids,
And whirled as only Dervish whirl.

Then as a climax the village boy essayed
To span the four trained camels
Who at Abdullah’s soft-spoke word
Moved just enough apart to make the boy fall short. 
And then our sinewed lad would make the leap,
The camels crowding close together
At another soft command. 
Our lad making good his jump,
The populace would grant our greater skill;
A goatskin filled with wine,
And honey mixed with melted butter
Was offered us within the caravanserai. 
Then we moved out beyond the town
And pitched our tents of camels’ hair,
Rising before the sun to face the friendless desert wastes
Until we reached another habitation on the camel trail,
I (who played the dumb boy of the tribe
Lest my Christian tongue betray me)
Trudging behind with all the salary—­
Chasing the desert after two new sheep,
Our net receipts for that Moroccan one-night stand.

Now twice each day within the Hippodrome
I, a buffoon in absurd clothes,
Strive to make the thousands laugh;
And when my act is done
There comes the tread of camels’ feet,
Followed by Slayman Ali and his Arab troupe,
Who tumble, jump and build pyramids
Before a canvas Sphinx upon a painted desert.... 
When I saw Slayman last
He was a boy
Chasing the sheep with me
Beneath Morocco’s moon. 
Tell me, where dwells romance, anyway? 
In Manhattan, or Arabian, nights?