The Call to Evening Prayer

ONE silver crescent in the twilight sky is hanging,

Another tips the solemn dome of yonder mosque.

And now the Muezzin’s call is heard, sonorous clanging

Through thronged bazaar, concealed hareem, and cool kiosk:

“In the Prophet’s name, God is God, and there is no other.”

On roofs, in streets, alone, or close beside his brother,

Each Moslem kneels, his forehead turned towards Mecca’s shrine,

And all the world forgotten in one thought divine.