We men of this age are rotten with book-lore and with a yearning for the past.

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.Since I can never see your face,And never shake you by the hand,I send...

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