A sunny court with wooden balconies,
And wool hung out to dry in gaudy skeins,
A fountain, and some pigeons murmuringly
Picking up yellow grains.
Pass through a little tumble-down green door
Into the dark and crowded shop; the Turk
Crouching above the brasier, smiles and nods;
'Tis all his daily work.
Here marble heads and alabaster jars,
Fragments of porphyry and Persian tiles,
Lie heaped in ruin, and at our dismay
The old Turk shrugs and smiles,
And sips his coffee, reaching out a hand
To throw upon the brasier at his feet
A handful of dried herbs, whose sudden smoke
Rises up incense-sweet.