At home to loiter never did me please,
A rover I, stranger in every land.
At dawn, the ashes thus addressed the breeze:
‘This desert’s air put out my flaming brand;

Pass gently; scatter me not with thy hand;
I yet recall the caravans s unease.’
My tears, like dew, trickled upon the sand,
I, too, being dust on the world’s passages.

Then in my heart I heard a soft voice sing:
The stream of time did from my fountain spring.
The past is all my fever and fire of yore,
The future all that I am yearning for:

Think not upon thy dust,
O think no more—
Lo, by the life,
I know no perishing!