ADELA FLORENCE NICOLSON

I shall go the way of the open sea, to the lands I knew before you came, and the cool ocean breezes shall blow from me the memory of your name.

Often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?

Men should be judged not by their tint of skin, the gods they serve, the vintage they drink, nor by the way they fight, or love, or sin, but by the quality of the thought they think.

Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, less than the weed that grows beside thy door.

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?

Often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire.

I shall go the way of the open sea, to the lands I knew before you came, and the cool ocean breezes shall blow from me the memory of your name.

Men should be judged not by their tint of skin, the gods they serve, the vintage they drink, nor by the way they fight, or love, or sin, but by the quality of the thought they think.

Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, less than the weed that grows beside thy door.