Exiles in the Mountains of Asia Minor

Where have gone our steepy mountains, our expansive forests, our oaks, our haunts, our dappled meadows? Where now sings the cuckoo, and to what yellow shores does spring come stealing? Here there is only ice and frost and white and winds. Here is only gray skies, here is only sand and grit and stinging cold, here is only bare branches reaching toward the sky. Where have gone our oceans, our clean salt air, our reeky fish, our tangled lines? Where now sing the million tongues in ten thousand languages, where are the spices sold, where the gems, where the furs, where the oddities? Here is white powder, here is chalk, here is moldy flour. Here is oaten mush, here is black earth, here is salt and pickling, here is brown sauce and grey and eggs that curl and hide their eyes in shame. Here is only journeybread. Here is only dried beans and peas. Where do our princes live, our kings and queens, our beautiful and cruel princesses, our stately lords, our noble ladies? What kingdom do our soldiers defend in their bright colours, over which hills do our lost eagles fly? Which were the ships that bore them all away? Here the ministers, here the burghers, here the shopkeepers, here the bookmakers and the oddsmen and the authenticians keep cold and shackling justice. Here the name of god burns every lip, here the wagging tongue finds easy faith, here in letters large are writ the words THOU SHALT and THOU SHALT NOT.