But woke. They gave me to a rais who wanted cattle, not advice.
He flogged me down to Damietta. I was old and fetched no price.
Nathless my battling heart was brave enough to work me till I dropped.
I passed for twopence to a Copt who sold me as a galley-slave
To Muscat. In the rhythmic stroke, old, undefeated, gnarled as oak
I creaked and strained against my fate, until that Sufi-something broke.
'Twas not my heart. An inner morn put the dark age in me to scorn,
And in the light I found myself, a child at play with worlds unborn,
For all that I had thought and read, and fought and watched the world be led
By any who contrived to cut a knot with that blunt tool, the head.