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

For one night or the other night / Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered flowers are dead, Yasmin.

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.

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!