I'd dined at home; I'd read till ten;
I'd thought, "The space upon the wall
Above the stuffed Thames trout
Wants filling." That was really all:
And then I closed my eyes, and then
I let my pipe go out.
* * * * *
We crawled, the Khan of Khot and I,
On a Thibetan precipice
(It _was_ Thibet, I think),
A place of snow and black abyss;
We lay on rock--mid wind and sky--
Above a beetling brink.
For lo, along the ridge there fed
The sheep that ne'er a shepherd know
Save the shrill wind of morn,
Five "_Oves Ammon_" of the snow;
I saw the big ram lift his head,
Twin-mooned in mighty horn.
Broadside he turned, a mountain-god
In sweep of coronal sublime,
And the fierce whisper broke--
The Khan of Khot's, he hissed, "_Tak time_!"
And handed me my spinning-rod;
And as he did I woke!
* * * * *
One thing at least is clear, and that's
My empty wall is yet to fill;
Though oft with even's shade
I see that great head from the hill,
Unstable as the Cheshire cat's,
Look down therefrom and fade.
* * * * *