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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. Zoë Akins |
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| The Tragedienne |
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| August 15, 2001 |
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