Whence hath this commotion swirled
In our old, slow-moving world,
That each girdled infidel
Like a reed of grief doth tell?

In the hut of the fakir,
In the palace of the ameer
There is pain and there is ruth
Huge to bow the back of youth.

Where is cure? For the disease
With the cure doth yet increase;
Science is all wizardry,
Mean deceit, and trickery.

Adam’s ship rides not the main
Save the torrent strive and strain;
Every heart a thousand wise
Doth the helmsman agonize.

Of life’s story do not seek
Any tale for me to speak;
All its pain I sufferd long,
And departed with a song.

I have let my breath to ride;
With the breeze of morning tide;
I have wandered in this mead
Yet no rose hath known my tread.

Far from cottage and from Street,
Yet in both abroad, and fleet,
With the vision of the moon
I have gazed this world upon!