WE grow to the sound of the wind Playing his flutes in our hair, Palm tree daughters, Brown flesh Bedouin, Fed with light By our gold father; We are loved of the free-tented, The sons of space, the hall-forgetters, The wide handed, the bright-sworded Masters of horses. Who has rested in the shade of our palms Shall hear us murmur ever above his sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |