Come! The Asiatic man has created a new plan: Go not, pilgrimage to make to the idol that he brake.

What is this epiphany that men’s hearts, rejoiced to see, from the ashes of the way gladly leap, like sparks at play?

To attain what far abode strive the Turks upon the road, that their bosom fluttereth with the quickness of their breath?

Strive thou, selfhood’s joy to know: They who on this journey go shatter every worldly chain that they may to self attain.

Men whose hearts are dead and cold as a cell this world behold; with two cups to fill their head, from the whole of life they fled.

I will ever be the slave of those horsemen bold and brave who, with spear uplifted, far ride, to pierce and thread a star.

Angels lack the season now prostrate to their Lord to bow; creatures of pure light, for they rapturous gaze on men of clay!