In the arched gateway of fair Ispahan,
Where shadows all day long in ambush lurk
Ready to steal abroad at nightfall, sits
Omar, the storyteller.  ...  Around him sit
The chief men of the city, they that be
Princes and potentates of Ispahan,
All listening tireless to the tales he tells.

 ... 

Through the long afternoon like fountain-fall
Runs on the tale till the dim air is sweet
With music of its murmurous syllables,
The liquid, melting cadences which drop
From Omar's lips like honey from the comb.
Spell-bound sit they who hear;  ...  and long the shadows grow
Of the tall camels passing and of slaves
Who watch their masters, envying their ease
In the cool gateway of fair Ispahan.