The sun is sinking over Africa;
And under shadowy native eaves reclines
A traveller upon a fur-strewn floor;
One whom no years' ignoble rust, but high
And holy toil have wasted; bearded grey,
In wayworn English garb he seems array'd;
His shoulders bow'd as from a life's long burden;
His rude wan countenance profoundly scarr'd
With noble ruin wrought by Love and Sorrow.
Reclined against the dwelling's claybuilt wall,
His falcon eyes explore the moonèd East.