Whence hath this commotion swirled in our old, slow-moving world that each girdled infidel like a reed of grief doth tell?

In the hut of the faqir, in the palace of the ameer there is pain and there is ruth huge to bow the back of youth.

Where is cure? For the disease with the cure doth yet increase; science is all wizardry, mean deceit, and trickery.

Adam’s ship rides not the main save the torrent strive and strain; every heart a thousand wise doth the helmsman agonize.

Of life’s story do not seek any tale for me to speak; all its pain I suffered long, and departed with a song.

I have let my breath to ride; with the breeze of morning tide; I have wandered in this mead yet no rose hath known my tread.

Far from cottage and from street, yet in both abroad, and fleet, with the vision of the moon I have gazed this world upon!