Перевод поэтического произведения с английского языка на русский.

What futile things are words!
But dust of the Desert of Thought,
Blown Willy-nilly;
And he who would enslave them,
Marking indelibly the pith of his being
Upon the atoms,must first walk
With bare feet the searing sand of day;
And e’er he catch the dust
Of that magic desert,spill from his heart
A little of its crimson fount,
Else tomorrow’s wind shall find
But more dust,yea,more confusion!