For pines are gossip pines the wide world through.

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

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

Neon strikes on England, noon on Oxford town,
Beauty she was statue cold - there's blood upon her gown.

Half to forget the wandering and pain,/ Half to remember days that have gone by,/ And dream and dream that I am home again!

And some to Meccah turn to pray, and I toward thy bed, Yasmin.