A storm is riding on the tide;
Grey is the day and grey the tide,
Far-off the sea-gulls wheel and cry-
A storm draws near upon the tide.
A city lifts its minarets
To winds that from the desert sweep;
And prisoned Arab women weep
Below the domes and minarets.
Upon a hill in Thessaly
Stand broken columns in a line
About a cold forgoten shrine,
Beneath a moon in Thessaly
But in the world there is no place
So desolate as your tragic face.