A ship, an isle, a sickle moon - / With few but with how splendid stars / The mirrors of the sea are strewn / Between their silver bars.

When the great markets by the sea shut fast / All that calm Sunday that goes on and on: / When even lovers find their peace at last,/ And Earth is but a star, that once had shone.

The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;For this, for everything, we are out of tune.

For lust of knowing what should not be known, we take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

For pines are gossip pines the wide world through.

Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young