Loss and desolation and the washing out of footsteps
That dare to treat the narrow golden peril of the sand.
They said it was a fire-land, a land of flaming passions,
The sun like a molten rose in burning sapphire skies,
And never sound nor stir save of hearts that beat their way there
Like southron birds whose wings seek the blue of burning skies.
But I have found a still land of neither pain nor passion,
No loss because no giving there, no gain since no desire,
And the great silent light of the Belovèd's spirit brooding
With the soul of all time there, made empty of desire.