All fled—all done, so lift me on the pyre— The Feast is over, and the lamps expire.

Know, oh prince, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars.

What do I know of cultured ways, the gilt, the craft and the lie? I, who was born in a naked land and bred in the open sky. The subtle tongue, the sophist guile, they fail when the broadswords sing; Rush in and die, dogs—I was a man before I was a king.

The printed page was like wine to me.

The more I see of what you call civilization, the more highly I think of what you call savagery!

How can I wear the harness of toil And sweat at the daily round, While in my soul forever The drums of Pictdom sound?

The sea-road is good for wanderers and landless men. There is quenching of thirst on the grey paths of the winds, and the flying clouds to still the sting of lost dreams.