Chapter 4

"Thirteen, fourteen years you number, and your hair is soft and scented, Perilous is such a slumber in the twilight all untented.

"Lonely loveliness means danger, lying in your rose-leaf nest, What if some young passing stranger broke into your careless rest?"

But she would not heed the warning, lay alone serene and slight, Till the rosy spears of morning slew the darkness of the night.

Young love, walking softly, found her, in the scented, shady closes, Threw his ardent arms around her, kissed her lips beneath the roses.

And she said, with smiles and blushes, "Would that I had sooner known! Never now the morning thrushes wake and find me all alone.

"Since you said the rose-leaf cover sweet protection gave, but slight, I have found this dear young lover to protect me through the night!"

Kashmiri Song

Pale hands I love beside the Shalimar, Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell? Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far, Before you agonise them in farewell?

Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains, Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell, How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float On those cool waters where we used to dwell, I would have rather felt you round my throat, Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Reverie of Ormuz the Persian

Softly the feathery Palm-trees fade in the violet Distance, Faintly the lingering light touches the edge of the sea, Sadly the Music of Waves, drifts, faint as an Anthem's insistence, Heard in the aisles of a dream, over the sandhills, to me.

Now that the Lights are reversed, and the Singing changed into sighing, Now that the wings of our fierce, fugitive passion are furled, Take I unto myself, all alone in the light that is dying, Much of the sorrow that lies hid at the Heart of the World.

Sad am I, sad for your loss: for failing the charm of your presence, Even the sunshine has paled, leaving the Zenith less blue. Even the ocean lessens the light of its green opalescence, Since, to my sorrow I loved, loved and grew weary of, you.

Why was our passion so fleeting, why had the flush of your beauty Only so slender a spell, only so futile a power? Yet, even thus ever is life, save when long custom or duty Moulds into sober fruit Love's fragile and fugitive flower.

Fain would my soul have been faithful; never an alien pleasure Lured me away from the light lit in your luminous eyes, But we have altered the World as pitiful man has leisure To criticise, balance, take counsel, assuredly lies.

All through the centuries Man has gathered his flower, and fenced it, --Infinite strife to attain; infinite struggle to keep,-- Holding his treasure awhile, all Fate and all forces against it, Knowing it his no more, if ever his vigilance sleep.

But we have altered the World as pitiful man has grown stronger, So that the things we love are as easily kept as won, Therefore the ancient fight can engage and detain us no longer, And all too swiftly, alas, passion is over and done.

Far too speedily now we can gather the coveted treasure, Enjoy it awhile, be satiated, begin to tire; And what shall be done henceforth with the profitless after-leisure, Who has the breath to kindle the ash of a faded fire?

Ah, if it only had lasted! After my ardent endeavour Came the delirious Joy, flooding my life like a sea, Days of delight that are burnt on the brain for ever and ever, Days and nights when you loved, before you grew weary of me.

Softly the sunset decreases dim in the violet Distance, Even as Love's own fervour has faded away from me, Leaving the weariness, the monotonous Weight of Existence,-- All the farewells in the world weep in the sound of the sea.

Sunstroke

Oh, straight, white road that runs to meet, Across green fields, the blue green sea, You knew the little weary feet Of my child bride that was to be!

Her people brought her from the shore One golden day in sultry June, And I stood, waiting, at the door, Praying my eyes might see her soon.

With eager arms, wide open thrown, Now never to be satisfied! Ere I could make my love my own She closed her amber eyes and died.

Alas! alas! they took no heed How frail she was, my little one, But brought her here with cruel speed Beneath the fierce, relentless sun.

We laid her on the marriage bed The bridal flowers in her hand, A maiden from the ocean led Only, alas! to die inland.

I walk alone; the air is sweet, The white road wanders to the sea, I dream of those two little feet That grew so tired in reaching me.

Adoration

Who does not feel desire unending To solace through his daily strife, With some mysterious Mental Blending, The hungry loneliness of life?

Until, by sudden passion shaken, As terriers shake a rat at play, He finds, all blindly, he has taken The old, Hereditary way.

Yet, in the moment of communion, The very heart of passion's fire, His spirit spurns the mortal union, "Not this, not this, the Soul's desire!"

* * * *

Oh You, by whom my life is riven, And reft away from my control, Take back the hours of passion given! Love me one moment from your soul.

Although I once, in ardent fashion, Implored you long to give me this; (In hopes to stem, or stifle, passion) Your hair to touch, your lips to kiss

Now that your gracious self has granted The loveliness you hold as naught, I find, alas! not that I wanted-- Possession has not stifled Thought.

Desire its aim has only shifted,-- Built hopes upon another plan, And I in love for you have drifted Beyond all passion known to man.

Beyond all dreams of soft caresses The solacing of any kiss,-- Beyond the fragrance of your tresses (Once I had sold my soul for this!)

But now I crave no mortal union (Thanks for that sweetness in the past); I need some subtle, strange communion, Some sense that _I_ join _you_, at last.

Long past the pulse and pain of passion, Long left the limits of all love,-- I crave some nearer, fuller fashion, Some unknown way, beyond, above,--

Some infinitely inner fusion, As Wave with Water; Flame with Fire,-- Let me dream once the dear delusion That I am You, Oh, Heart's Desire!

Your kindness lent to my caresses That beauty you so lightly prize,-- The midnight of your sable tresses, The twilight of your shadowed eyes.

Ah, for that gift all thanks are given! Yet, Oh, adored, beyond control, Count all the passionate past forgiven And love me once, once, from your soul.

Three Songs of Zahir-u-Din

The tropic day's redundant charms Cool twilight soothes away, The sun slips down behind the palms And leaves the landscape grey. I want to take you in my arms And kiss your lips away!

I wake with sunshine in my eyes And find the morning blue, A night of dreams behind me lies And all were dreams of you! Ah, how I wish the while I rise, That what I dream were true.

The weary day's laborious pace, I hasten and beguile By fancies, which I backwards trace To things I loved erstwhile; The weary sweetness of your face, Your faint, illusive smile.

The silken softness of your hair Where faint bronze shadows are, Your strangely slight and youthful air, No passions seem to mar,-- Oh, why, since Fate has made you fair, Must Fortune keep you far?

Thus spent, the day so long and bright Less hot and brilliant seems, Till in a final flare of light The sun withdraws his beams. Then, in the coolness of the night, I meet you in my dreams!

Second Song

How much I loved that way you had Of smiling most, when very sad, A smile which carried tender hints Of delicate tints And warbling birds, Of sun and spring, And yet, more than all other thing, Of Weariness beyond all Words!

None other ever smiled that way, None that I know,-- The essence of all Gaiety lay, Of all mad mirth that men may know, In that sad smile, serene and slow, That on your lips was wont to play.

It needed many delicate lines And subtle curves and roseate tints To make that weary radiant smile; It flickered, as beneath the vines The sunshine through green shadow glints On the pale path that lies below, Flickered and flashed, and died away, But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhile Were wont to stay.

Thoughts of Strange Things you used to know In dim, dead lives, lived long ago, Some madly mirthful Merriment Whose lingering light is yet unspent,-- Some unimaginable Woe,-- Your strange, sad smile forgets these not, Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!

Third Song, written during Fever

To-night the clouds hang very low, They take the Hill-tops to their breast, And lay their arms about the fields. The wind that fans me lying low, Restless with great desire for rest, No cooling touch of freshness yields.

I, sleepless through the stifling heat, Watch the pale Lightning's constant glow Between the wide set open doors. I lie and long amidst the heat,-- The fever that my senses know, For that cool slenderness of yours.

So delicate and cool you are! A roseleaf that has lain in snow, A snowflake tinged with sunset fire. You do not know, so young you are, How Fever fans the senses' glow To uncontrollable desire!

And fills the spaces of the night With furious and frantic thought, One would not dare to think by day. Ah, if you came to me to-night These visions would be turned to naught, These hateful dreams be held at bay!

But you are far, and Loneliness My only lover through the night; And not for any word or prayer Would you console my loneliness Or lend yourself, serene and slight, And the cool clusters of your hair.

All through the night I long for you, As shipwrecked men in tropics yearn For the fresh flow of streams and springs. My fevered fancies follow you As dying men in deserts turn Their thoughts to clear and chilly things.

Such dreams are mine, and such my thirst, Unceasing and unsatisfied, Until the night is burnt away Among these dreams and fevered thirst, And, through the open doorways, glide The white feet of the coming day.

The Regret of the Ranee in the Hall of Peacocks

This man has taken my Husband's life And laid my Brethren low, No sister indeed, were I, no wife, To pardon and let him go.

Yet why does he look so young and slim As he weak and wounded lies? How hard for me to be harsh to him With his soft, appealing eyes.

His hair is ruffled upon the stone And the slender wrists are bound, So young! and yet he has overthrown His scores on the battle ground.

Would I were only a slave to-day, To whom it were right and meet To wash the stains of the War away, The dust from the weary feet.

Were I but one of my serving girls To solace his pain to rest! Shake out the sand from the soft loose curls, And hold him against my breast!

Have we such beauty around our Throne? Such lithe and delicate strength? Would God that I were the senseless stone To support his slender length!

I hate those wounds that trouble my sight, Unknown! how I wish you lay, Alone in my silken tent to-night While I charmed the pain away.

I would lay you down on the Royal bed, I would bathe your wounds with wine, And setting your feet against my head Dream you were lover of mine.

My Crown is heavy upon my hair, The Jewels weigh on my breast, All I would leave, with delight, to share Your pale and passionate rest!

But hands grow restless about their swords, Lips murmur below their breath, "The Queen is silent too long!" "My Lords, --Take him away to death!"

Protest: By Zahir-u-Din

Alas! alas! this wasted Night With all its Jasmin-scented air, Its thousand stars, serenely bright! I lie alone, and long for you, Long for your Champa-scented hair, Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;

Long for the close-curved, delicate lips --Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine-- Here, where the slender fountain drips, Here, where the yellow roses glow, Pale in the tender silver shine The stars across the garden throw.

Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth! Why must we spend these lonely nights? The poets hardly speak the truth,-- Despite their praiseful litany, His season is not all delights Nor every night an ecstasy!

The very power and passion that make-- _Might_ make--his days one golden dream, How he must suffer for their sake! Till, in their fierce and futile rage, The baffled senses almost deem They might be happier in old age.

Age that can find red roses sweet, And yet not crave a rose-red mouth; Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feet Of sweeter singers went his way; Inhale warm breezes from the South, Yet never fed his fancy stray.

From some near Village I can hear The cadenced throbbing of a drum, Now softly distant, now more near; And in an almost human fashion, It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come Laden with sighs of fitful passion,

To mock me, lying here alone Among the thousand useless flowers Upon the fountain's border-stone-- Cold stone, that chills me as I lie Counting the slowly passing hours By the white spangles in the sky.

Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate, Where, close together, side by side, Gay in their gauze and tinsel state With lips serene and downcast eyes, Sit the young bridegroom and his bride, While round them songs and laughter rise.

They are together; Why are we So hopelessly, so far apart? Oh, I implore you, come to me! Come to me, Solace of mine eyes! Come Consolation of my heart! Light of my senses! What replies?

A little, languid, mocking breeze That rustles through the Jasmin flowers And stirs among the Tamarind trees; A little gurgle of the spray That drips, unheard, though silent hours, Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.

Wind, have you never loved a rose? And water, seek you not the Sea? Why, therefore, mock at my repose? Is it my fault I am alone Beneath the feathery Tamarind tree Whose shadows over me are thrown?

Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirst For all to me this night denied And drunk with longing, and accurst Beyond all chance of sleep or rest, With love, unslaked, unsatisfied, And dreams of beauty unpossessed.

Hating the hour that brings you not, Mad at the space betwixt us twain, Sad for my empty arms, so hot And fevered, even the chilly stone Can scarcely cool their burning pain,-- And oh, this sense of being alone!

Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours, You bring me not my Life's Delight, My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers! You leave me loveless and forlorn, Pass on, most false and futile night, Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!

Famine Song

Death and Famine on every side And never a sign of rain, The bones of those who have starved and died Unburied upon the plain. What care have I that the bones bleach white? To-morrow they may be mine, But I shall sleep in your arms to-night And drink your lips like wine!

Cholera, Riot, and Sudden Death, And the brave red blood set free, The glazing eye and the failing breath,-- But what are these things to me? Your breath is quick and your eyes are bright And your blood is red like wine, And I shall sleep in your arms to-night And hold your lips with mine!

I hear the sound of a thousand tears, Like softly pattering rain, I see the fever, folly, and fears Fulfilling man's tale of pain. But for the moment your star is bright, I revel beneath its shine, For I shall sleep in your arms to-night And feel your lips on mine!

And you need not deem me over cold, That I do not stop to think For all the pleasure this Life may hold Is on the Precipice brink. Thought could but lessen my soul's delight, And to-day she may not pine. For I shall lie in your arms to-night And close your lips with mine!

I trust what sorrow the Fates may send I may carry quietly through, And pray for grace when I reach the end, To die as a man should do. To-day, at least, must be clear and bright, Without a sorrowful sign, Because I sleep in your arms to-night And feel your lips on mine!

So on I work, in the blazing sun, To bury what dead we may, But glad, oh, glad, when the day is done And the night falls round us grey. Would those we covered away from sight Had a rest as sweet as mine! For I shall sleep in your arms to-night And drink your lips like wine!

The Window Overlooking the Harbour

Sad is the Evening: all the level sand Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea, Tired of the green caresses of the land, Withdraws into its own infinity.

But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn Filling the vacant spaces of the sky, While little winds blow here and there forlorn And all the stars, weary of shining, die.

And more than desolate, to wake, to rise, Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still, What through the past night made my heaven, lies; And looking out across the window sill

See, from the upper window's vantage ground, Mankind slip into harness once again, And wearily resume his daily round Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.

How the sad thoughts slip back across the night: The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain. What use the raptures, passion and delight, Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.

The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat The question: Whither all these passions tend;-- This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet, So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?

Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race, The only immortality we know,-- Even if from the flower of our embrace Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,

What were the use? the gain, to us or it, That we should cause another You or Me,-- Another life, from our light passion lit, To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.

What aim, what end indeed? Our being runs In a closed circle. All we know or see Tends to assure us that a thousand Suns, Teeming perchance with life, have ceased to be.

Ah, the grey Dawn seems more than desolate, And the past night of passion worse than waste, Love but a useless flower, that soon or late, Turns to a fruit with bitter aftertaste.

Youth, even Youth, seems futile and forlorn While the new day grows slowly white above. Pale and reproachful comes the chilly Dawn After the fervour of a night of love.

Back to the Border

The tremulous morning is breaking Against the white waste of the sky, And hundreds of birds are awaking In tamarisk bushes hard by. I, waiting alone in the station, Can hear in the distance, grey-blue, The sound of that iron desolation, The train that will bear me from you.

'T will carry me under your casement, You'll feel in your dreams as you lie The quiver, from gable to basement, The rush of my train sweeping by. And I shall look out as I pass it,-- Your dear, unforgettable door, 'T was _ours_ till last night, but alas! it Will never be mine any more.

Through twilight blue-grey and uncertain, Where frost leaves the window-pane free, I'll look at the tinsel-edged curtain That hid so much pleasure for me. I go to my long undone duty Alone in the chill and the gloom, My eyes are still full of the beauty I leave in your rose-scented room.

Lie still in your dreams; for your tresses Are free of my lingering kiss. I keep you awake with caresses No longer; be happy in this! From passion you told me you hated You're now and for ever set free, I pass in my train, sorrow-weighted, Your house that was Heaven to me.

You won't find a trace, when you waken, Of me or my love of the past, Rise up and rejoice! I have taken My longed-for departure at last. My fervent and useless persistence You never need suffer again, Nor even perceive in the distance The smoke of my vanishing train!

Reverie: Zahir-u-Din

Alone, I wait, till her twilight gate The Night slips quietly through, With shadow and gloom, and purple bloom, Flung over the Zenith blue.

Her stars that tremble, would fain dissemble Light over lovers thrown,-- Her hush and mystery know no history Such as day may own. Day has record of pleasure and pain, But things that are done by Night remain For ever and ever unknown.

For a thousand years, 'neath a thousand skies, Night has brought men love; Therefore the old, old longings rise As the light grows dim above.

Therefore, now that the shadows close, And the mists weird and white, While Time is scented with musk and rose; Magic with silver light.

I long for love; will you grant me some? Day is over at last. Come! as lovers have always come, Through the evenings of the Past. Swiftly, as lovers have always come, Softly, as lovers have always come Through the long-forgotten Past.

Sea Song

Against the planks of the cabin side, (So slight a thing between them and me,) The great waves thundered and throbbed and sighed, The great green waves of the Indian sea!

Your face was white as the foam is white, Your hair was curled as the waves are curled, I would we had steamed and reached that night The sea's last edge, the end of the world.

The wind blew in through the open port, So freshly joyous and salt and free, Your hair it lifted, your lips it sought, And then swept back to the open sea.

The engines throbbed with their constant beat; Your heart was nearer, and all I heard; Your lips were salt, but I found them sweet, While, acquiescent, you spoke no word.

So straight you lay in your narrow berth, Rocked by the waves; and you seemed to be Essence of all that is sweet on earth, Of all that is sad and strange at sea.

And you were white as the foam is white, Your hair was curled as the waves are curled. Ah! had we but sailed and reached that night, The sea's last edge, the end of the world!

To the Hills!

'T is eight miles out and eight miles in, Just at the break of morn. 'T is ice without and flame within, To gain a kiss at dawn!

Far, where the Lilac Hills arise Soft from the misty plain, A lone enchanted hollow lies Where I at last drew rein.