Nomads
By Victoria Mary Sackville-West
From the shores of the Atlantic to the gardens of Japan,
From the darkness of the Neva to the courts of Ispahan,
There is nothing that can hold us, hold our wandering caravan.
Leisurely is our encamping; nowhere pause in hasty flight.
Long enough to learn the secret, and the value, and the might,
Whether of the northern mountains or the southern lands of light.
And the riches of the regions will be ours from land to land,
Falling as a wiling booty under our marauding hand,
Rugs from Persia, gods from China, emeralds from Samarcand!
And the old forgotten empires, which have faded turn by turn,
From the shades emerging slowly to their ancient sway return,
And to their imperial manhood rise the ashes from the urn.
We have known Bzyantium's glory when the eagled flag was flown,
When the ruins were not ruins; eagled visions have I known
Of a spectral Roman emperor seated on a spectral throne.
We have tasted space and freedom, frontiers falling as we went,
Now with narrow bonds and limits never could we be content,
For we have abolished boundaries, straitened borders have we rent,
And a house no more confines us than the roving nomad's tent.