Give me that melon of Khiva,
Luscious and round and fair!—
Its mate, for the Lord of China,
Across the steppes they bear;
And place on the tray beside it,
Worthy of sheikh or khan,
Peaches that grew in the gardens,
Of the golden Zerefshan.
And a cup of Flowery Pekoe—
Tea of the mandarins—
Gathered in dewy morning,
Just when the spring begins.
(Keep for the peasant and Tartar,
The bowls of the dark Bohea
Plucked when the heats of summer
With rank leaves load the tree.)
Ah, what ravishing flavors!
Not the wine of the Rhine,
Not of Tokay, nor the nectar
Won from the Cyprian vine,
Nor Sicily's oranges rarest,
Nor sweetest figs of Dalmatia,
Rival the Flowery Pekoe
And the spicy melons of Asia.