Life Is Not Having And Getting, But

Oxus, Forgetting The Bright Speed He Had In His High Mountain Cradle In Pamere, A Foiled Circuitous Wanderertill At Last The Longed-for Dash Of Waves Is Heard, And Wide His Luminous Home Of Waters Opens, Bright And Tranquil, From Whose Floor The New-bathed Stars Emerge, And Shine Upon The Aral Sea.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.

How Many Minds--almost All The Great Ones--were Formed In Secrecy And Solitude!

Wandering Between Two Worlds, One Dead, The Other Powerless To Be Born.

Sand-strewn Caverns, Cool And Deep, Where The Winds Are All Asleep; Where The Spent Lights Quiver And Gleam; Where The Salt Weed Sways In The Stream.