Soon would the whole of yon red-hot grave
spread forth, a breezy and rippling sea.
The oases would rise in the midst, like islands;
Atlas would tower in green cliffs on the north;
sailing-ships would, like stray birds on the wing,
skim to the south, on the caravans’ track.
Life-giving breezes would scatter the choking
vapours, and dew would distil from the clouds.
People would build themselves town on town,
and grass would grow green round the swaying palm-trees.
The southland, behind the Sahara’s wall,
would make a new seaboard for civilisation.
Steam would set Timbuctoo’s factories spinning;
Bornu would be colonised apace;
the naturalist would pass safely through Habes
in his railway-car to the Upper Nile.
In the midst of my sea, on a fat oasis,
I will replant the Norwegian race;
the Dalesman’s blood is next door to royal;
Arabic crossing will do the rest.