And distance placed soft hands upon their mouths. X THE SONG OF THE SELVES DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE 'Twas in old Tehran City, Hard by the old bazaar, I heard a restless ditty That pushed my door ajar; A song nor great nor witty, It spoke of my own mind. I looked on Tehran City, And knew I had been blind, Or else the streets were altered As by a peri's wand. "Who are you, friends?" I faltered. "The Pilgrims of Beyond," They said. I kissed the tatters That wiser heads contemn. I saw the Thing-that-matters, And took the road with them. I seek. Bestow no pity On Failure's courtier. Say: "'Twas well to find the city, But that was yesterday." THE PILGRIMS Athirst as the Hadramut, Our spirits correspond With God by all the gamut Of harmony, too fond Of Him for prayer that rifles His treasury for trifles. No load of blessing stifles The Pilgrims of Beyond. DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE And yet the empty-handed Hold richer merchandise Than ever fable landed From Dreamland's argosies, Since we, the symbol-merchants, Are partners with Bulbul. The silversmith of her chants Knows how our chests are full. In marts, where echoes answer And only they, we trade. But join our caravan, sir, And count your fortune made. Dawn brings us dazzling offers With fingers gemmed and pearled, And evening fills our coffers As we explain the world, Green fields and seas that curtsey To us and mock Despair; For blossoms in the dirt see Their spirit in the air. And Ecstasy our servant Demands no other wage But that we be observant To joy in pilgrimage. THE MERCHANTS We do not bid our master Declare His word His bond, Or make His payments faster-- As though He would abscond! We ask Him for too little To strain at jot or tittle. We know our lives are brittle, We Pilgrims of Beyond. DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE We come from everlasting Towards eternity, Ho! not in dirge and fasting But lapped in jollity. Though sackcloth be our clothing We bear no ash but fire. We have no sickly loathing Of youth and youth's desire. We prize no consummation Of one peculiar creed. We travel for a nation, The one that feels our need. Our tongue conceals no message, But leaves you free to find, And vaunts itself the presage Of those that come behind. THE CAMELMEN Here is no patch of shade. A Fierce wilderness and blonde Links Delhi to Hodeidah, Tashkent to Trebizond. The cargo is our brother's, We march and moil for others, Until the desert smothers The Pilgrims of Beyond. DREAMER-OF-THE-AGE