_Younger Sisters_ In the softest silk is our sister dressed, With silver rubies upon her breast, Where a dearer treasure to-night will rest.
_Dancing Girls_ See! his hair is like silk, and his teeth are whiter Than whitest of jasmin flowers. Pity they marry him thus. I would change my jewels against his caresses. Verily, sisters, this marriage is greatly a loss to us!
_Bride_ Would that the music ceased and the night drew round us, With solitude, shadow, and sound of closing doors, So that our lips might meet and our beings mingle, While mine drank deep of the essence, beloved, of yours.
_Passing mendicant_ Out of the joy of your marriage feast, Oh, brothers, be good to me. The way is long and the Shrine is far, Where my weary feet would be.
And feasting is always somewhat sad To those outside the door-- Still; Love is only a dream, and Life Itself is hardly more!
To the Unattainable:
Lament of Mahomed Akram
I would have taken Golden Stars from the sky for your necklace, I would have shaken rose-leaves for your rest from all the rose-trees.
But you had no need; the short sweet grass sufficed for your slumber, And you took no heed of such trifles as gold or a necklace.
There is an hour, at twilight, too heavy with memory. There is a flower that I fear, for your hair had its fragrance.
I would have squandered Youth for you, and its hope and its promise, Before you wandered, careless, away from my useless passion.
But what is the use of my speech, since I know of no words to recall you? I am praying that Time may teach, you, your Cruelty, me, Forgetfulness.
Mahomed Akram's Appeal to the Stars
Oh, Silver Stars that shine on what I love, Touch the soft hair and sparkle in the eyes,-- Send, from your calm serenity above, Sleep to whom, sleepless, here, despairing lies.
Broken, forlorn, upon the Desert sand That sucks these tears, and utterly abased, Looking across the lonely, level land, With thoughts more desolate than any waste.
Planets that shine on what I so adore, Now thrown, the hour is late, in careless rest, Protect that sleep, which I may watch no more, I, the cast out, dismissed and dispossessed.
Far in the hillside camp, in slumber lies What my worn eyes worship but never see. Happier Stars! your myriad silver eyes Feast on the quiet face denied to me.
Loved with a love beyond all words or sense, Lost with a grief beyond the saltest tear, So lovely, so removed, remote, and hence So doubly and so desperately dear!
Stars! from your skies so purple and so calm, That through the centuries your secrets keep, Send to this worn-out brain some Occult Balm, Send me, for many nights so sleepless, sleep.
And ere the sunshine of the Desert jars My sense with sorrow and another day, Through your soft Magic, oh, my Silver Stars! Turn sleep to Death in some mysterious way.
Reminiscence of Mahomed Akram
I shall never forget you, never. Never escape Your memory woven about the beautiful things of life.
The sudden Thought of your Face is like a Wound When it comes unsought On some scent of Jasmin, Lilies, or pale Tuberose. Any one of the sweet white fragrant flowers, Flowers I used to love and lay in your hair.
Sunset is terribly sad. I saw you stand Tall against the red and the gold like a slender palm; The light wind stirred your hair as you waved your hand, Waved farewell, as ever, serene and calm, To me, the passion-wearied and tost and torn, Riding down the road in the gathering grey. Since that day The sunset red is empty, the gold forlorn.
Often across the Banqueting board at nights Men linger about your name in careless praise The name that cuts deep into my soul like a knife; And the gay guest-faces and flowers and leaves and lights Fade away from the failing sense in a haze, And the music sways Far away in unmeasured distance.... I cannot forget-- I cannot escape. What are the Stars to me? Stars that meant so much, too much, in my youth; Stars that sparkled about your eyes, Made a radiance round your hair, What are they now?
Lingering lights of a Finished Feast, Little lingering sparks rather, Of a Light that is long gone out.
Story by Lalla-ji, the Priest
He loved the Plant with a keen delight, A passionate fervour, strange to see, Tended it ardently, day and night, Yet never a flower lit up the tree.
The leaves were succulent, thick, and green, And, sessile, out of the snakelike stem Rose spine-like fingers, alert and keen, To catch at aught that molested them.
But though they nurtured it day and night, With love and labour, the child and he Were never granted the longed-for sight Of a flower crowning the twisted tree.
Until one evening a wayworn Priest Stopped for the night in the Temple shade And shared the fare of their simple feast Under the vines and the jasmin laid.
He, later, wandering round the flowers Paused awhile by the blossomless tree. The man said, "May it be fault of ours, That never its buds my eyes may see?
"Aslip it came from the further East Many a sunlit summer ago." "It grows in our Jungles," said the Priest, "Men see it rarely; but this I know,
"The Jungle people worship it; say They bury a child around its roots-- Bury it living:--the only way To crimson glory of flowers and fruits."
He spoke in whispers; his furtive glance Probing the depths of the garden shade. The man came closer, with eyes askance, The child beside them shivered, afraid.
A cold wind drifted about the three, Jarring the spines with a hungry sound, The spines that grew on the snakelike tree And guarded its roots beneath the ground.
.....
After the fall of the summer rain The plant was glorious, redly gay, Blood-red with blossom. Never again Men saw the child in the Temple play.
Request
Give me your self one hour; I do not crave For any love, or even thought, of me. Come, as a Sultan may caress a slave And then forget for ever, utterly.
Come! as west winds, that passing, cool and wet, O'er desert places, leave them fields in flower And all my life, for I shall not forget, Will keep the fragrance of that perfect hour!
Story of Udaipore:
Told by Lalla-ji, the Priest
"And when the Summer Heat is great, And every hour intense, The Moghra, with its subtle flowers, Intoxicates the sense."
The Coco palms stood tall and slim, against the golden-glow, And all their grey and graceful plumes were waving to and fro.
She lay forgetful in the boat, and watched the dying Sun Sink slowly lakewards, while the stars replaced him, one by one.
She saw the marble Temple walls long white reflections make, The echoes of their silvery bells were blown across the lake.
The evening air was very sweet; from off the island bowers Came scents of Moghra trees in bloom, and Oleander flowers.
"The Moghra flowers that smell so sweet When love's young fancies play; The acrid Moghra flowers, still sweet Though love be burnt away."
The boat went drifting, uncontrolled, the rower rowed no more, But deftly turned the slender prow towards the further shore.
The dying sunset touched with gold the Jasmin in his hair; His eyes were darkly luminous: she looked and found him fair.
And so persuasively he spoke, she could not say him nay, And when his young hands took her own, she smiled and let them stay.
And all the youth awake in him, all love of Love in her, All scents of white and subtle flowers that filled the twilight air
Combined together with the night in kind conspiracy To do Love service, while the boat went drifting onwards, free.
"The Moghra flowers, the Moghra flowers, While Youth's quick pulses play They are so sweet, they still are sweet, Though passion burns away."
Low in the boat the lovers lay, and from his sable curls The Jasmin flowers slipped away to rest among the girl's.
Oh, silver lake and silver night and tender silver sky! Where as the hours passed, the moon rose white and cold on high.
"The Moghra flowers, the Moghra flowers, So dear to Youth at play; The small and subtle Moghra flowers That only last a day."
Suddenly, frightened, she awoke, and waking vaguely saw The boat had stranded in the sedge that fringed the further shore.
The breeze grown chilly, swayed the palms; she heard, still half awake, A prowling jackal's hungry cry blown faintly o'er the lake.
She shivered, but she turned to kiss his soft, remembered face, Lit by the pallid light he lay, in Youth's abandoned grace.