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18 From this my labour of long years o'erthrown; And yet not homeward, baffled as they deem— For lo! my face is toward the world unknown, That seem'd almost the very world in sooth, "From whose dark bourne no traveller returns." I take the plunge, and I am lost in night! Lost to the life and tumult of mankind: No voice may reach me from the homes of men; No voice of mine may penetrate to them. Five times twelve moons have filled their horns and waned; My memory is failing from the world; Only a ghostly rumour murmurs low How one has seen a strange white wanderer, Somewhere inland; none certainly knows where; And one more rumour whispers, he is dead. Empires may rise and fall; great wars may thunder; And peace may follow war; and I not know, More than the drown'd who slumber in the sea— Yea, have they ruin'd me at Kolobeng? Behold I wrest from them all Africa!