The Scythian On the wide steppe, unharnessing His wheel’d house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal — Mares’ milk, and bread Baked on the embers; — all around The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch... ...; before him, for long miles, Alive with bright green lizards And the springing bustard fowl, The track, a straight black line, Furrows the rich soil; here and there Clusters of lonely mounds Topp’d with rough hewn, Gray, rain-blear’d statues, overpeer The sunny waste.
