|Winds of these wasteland be your love! Bokhara,|
Delhi, are worth no more. Like running water
Go where you will: these desert plains are ours, and
Ours are these valleys.
Honour, that high thing in a world of troubling,
Sets on the hermit’s head Darius’ crown. How
Glass is forged flint-hard—this strange craft they tell of
Learn from some master!
Fortunes of States through individual prowess
Ripen, each man one star of their ascendant:
Ocean withholds her treasure when the diver
Groping for pearlshells
Clings by land’s margin. To the Muslim freedom
Gained at the price of casting off religion
Makes an ill bargain! In our world, where once more
Civilization looses its wild beasts, in one more encounter
Spirit and flesh meet; on the true-believer’s
Manhood God’s trust lies—the machines of Europe Satan’s alliance.
Who knows the nation’s fates?—but signs abound, if
Muslims are wakeful. From your buried fathers
Ask pride of action; do not fear—
a king may smile on a beggar.