There, to the west, the white walls rise,
Shadowed against the sun,
Above whose ramparts wave the green
Palms, and then the cross.
The donkeys hasten, stumbling home
Through hills of twilit sand;
The traveller hopes this is the end
Of seeing just the same.
Thing over and over again.
Where, by the huge doors, water waits
The dangerous desert tribe, he sights
The sun gone down.
The dreamed escape from what has been
Dissolves and may be real:
Cry, like some ancient Theban call,
Comes from a soul within.
The doors of future blessings grind
Open in the dark;
And unknown voices sparkle
With friendship in the place,
Long hidden from the restless mind,