He is not here, Avignon said, And Chartres said He's gone away. We had no room. Try Kamakura or the moon. Or blind Byzantium. These are but stone, and painted blood And sun of fire-hearted glass. He was somewhere on a hill -- Was it Golgotha? -- Or in a garden somewhere else. Someone hanged himself And someone wept While others slept. It was a bitter time we had. But they went south last night -- Or was it east? To Cairo and Mecca And the Ca'aba. Oh, come again! Tomorrow, It if does not rain.