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On the evening of May 21st I had gone out for dinner after completing a sequence of poems. The last poem was a first draft. I came back and faired it in long hand. It ran: The Messenger Announces At Pasargadae the Terrible News My Lords, both Persian and Mede, rumour precedes horsemen. So I have ridden twenty hours a day to be here amongst you and beat rumour by a length. The army, or its remnants have brought back six kinds of moss, infinite varieties of kelp laughter-leaves which intoxicate when thrown in fire and words of a language looking for a script. And we have brought the body of Cyrus.