What of myself?
I am like unto the sere chrysanthemum
That is shorn by the frost-blade, and, torn from its roots,
Whirled away on the wind.
Once in the valleys of Ch‘in and Yung I rambled at will,
Now ring me round the unfriendly plains of the wild folk of Pa.
O galloping dawns with Youth and Ambition riding knee to knee!
Ride on, Youth, with the galloping dawns and dappled days!
I am unhorsed, outventured—
I, who crouch by the crumbling embers, old, and grey, and alone.
One great hour of noon with the sky-faring Rukh
I clanged on the golden dome of Heaven.
Now in the long dusk of adversity
I have found my palace of contentment my dream pavilion;
Even the tiny twig of the little humble wren.