Adela Florence Nicolson
Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar, where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell?
Often devotion to virtue arises from sated desire.
Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, less than the weed that grows beside thy door.
Men should be judged not by their tint of skin, the gods they serve, the vintage they drink, nor by the way they fight, or love, or sin, but by the quality of the thought they think.
I shall go the way of the open sea, to the lands I knew before you came, and the cool ocean breezes shall blow from me the memory of your name.