* * * * *
1918
I met an Indian underneath a tree, under a ragged tree,
His face was yellow and wrinkled like some stone whereon a God had writ
And his emaciated fingers drew circles in the dust....
I bent my mouth to his ear, crying "O father, O Prophet!
I have wandered far over the earth troubled with doubts that will not let me rest,
Canst thou not tell me with all thy wizardries and meditations