Know you where I, my royal fool, was crowned?
A rock within the great Egean? Where
A strong flood hurrieth on Finistere?
Where at the Pole our valiant men were drowned?

Where the soft creamy wash of Indian seas
Spreads palmward? Where the sunset glides to dawn,
No night between? Where all the tides are drawn
To greet their Sun and bathe their Idol’s knees?

Where was I crowned? Dear fool, upon a stone
That standeth where Earth’s arches make but one,
Where all the banners of her soul were flown,

And trumpeted the legions of the sun.
The stone is left: ‘tis here against the door
Of throne and kingdom. . . . Pray you, mock no more.