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

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

We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, We Poets of the proud old lineage Who sing to find your hear….

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!.

For pines are gossip pines the wide world through And full of runic tales to sigh or sing..

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep..

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

When the great markets by the sea shut fastAll that calm Sunday that goes on and on:When even lovers find their peace at last,And Earth is but a star….

But have you wine and music still,And statues and a bright-eyed love,And foolish thoughts of good and ill,And prayers to them who sit above?.

It is not the poet's business to save man's soul but to make it worth saving . . . However, few poets have written with a clear theory of art for art….

The poet's business is not to save the soul of man but to make it worth saving..

I look down the farthest side of the mountain, fulfilled and understanding all, and truly content that I lived a full life and one that was my ow….

For the spear was a desert physician, That cured not a few of ambition, And drave not a few to perdition, With medicine bitter and strong..