My lover smiled, “O friend, ask not
The journey’s end, nor whence we are.
That whistling boy who minds his goats
So idly in the grey ravine,

“The brown-backed rower drenched with spray,
The lemon-seller in the street,
And the young girl who keeps her first
Wild love-tryst at the rising moon,—

“Lo, these are wiser than the wise.
And not for all our questioning
Shall we discover more than joy,
Nor find a better thing than love!

“Let pass the banners and the spears,
The hate, the battle, and the greed;
For greater than all gifts is peace,
And strength is in the tranquil mind.”