James Elroy Flecker

We travel not for trafficking alone; By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned; For lust of knowing what should not be known, We take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little further; it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow Across that angry or that glimmering sea,White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lies a prophet who can …

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

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

A ship, an isle, a sickle moon — With few but with how splendid stars.

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep.

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

When even lovers find their peace at last, And Earth is but a star, that once had shone.

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 hearts, we know not why.

West of these out to seas colder than the Hebrides I must go Where the fleet of stars is anchored and the young Star captains glow.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown, Student of our sweet English tongue, Read out my words at night, alone: I was a poet, I was young.

I care not if you bridge the seas, Or ride secure the cruel sky, Or build consummate palaces Of metal or of masonry. But have you wine and music still, And statues and a bright-eyed love,