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.
Midwinter grips this lonely land, This stony, treeless waste, Where East, due East, across the sand, We fly in fevered haste.
Pull up! the East will soon be red, The wild duck westward fly, And make above my anxious head, Triangles in the sky.
Like wind we go; we both are still So young; all thanks to Fate! (It cuts like knives, this air so chill,) Dear God! if I am late!
Behind us, wrapped in mist and sleep The Ruined City lies, (Although we race, we seem to creep!) While lighter grow the skies.
Eight miles out only, eight miles in, Good going all the way; But more and more the clouds begin To redden into day.
And every snow-tipped peak grows pink An iridescent gem! My heart beats quick, with joy, to think How I am nearing them!
As mile on mile behind us falls, Till, Oh, delight! I see My Heart's Desire, who softly calls Across the gloom to me.
The utter joy of that First Love No later love has given, When, while the skies grew light above, We entered into Heaven.
Till I Wake
When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly, Stoop, as the yellow roses droop in the wind from the South. So I may, when I wake, if there be an Awakening, Keep, what lulled me to sleep, the touch of your lips on my mouth.
His Rubies: Told by Valgovind
Along the hot and endless road, Calm and erect, with haggard eyes, The prisoner bore his fetters' load Beneath the scorching, azure skies.
Serene and tall, with brows unbent, Without a hope, without a friend, He, under escort, onward went, With death to meet him at the end.
The Poppy fields were pink and gay On either side, and in the heat Their drowsy scent exhaled all day A dream-like fragrance almost sweet.
And when the cool of evening fell And tender colours touched the sky, He still felt youth within him dwell And half forgot he had to die.
Sometimes at night, the Camp-fires lit And casting fitful light around, His guard would, friend-like, let him sit And talk awhile with them, unbound.
Thus they, the night before the last, Were resting, when a group of girls Across the small encampment passed, With laughing lips and scented curls.
Then in the Prisoner's weary eyes A sudden light lit up once more, The women saw him with surprise, And pity for the chains he bore.
For little women reck of Crime If young and fair the criminal be Here in this tropic, amorous clime Where love is still untamed and free.
And one there was, she walked less fast, Behind the rest, perhaps beguiled By his lithe form, who, as she passed, Waited a little while, and smiled.
The guard, in kindly Eastern fashion, Smiled to themselves, and let her stay. So tolerant of human passion, "To love he has but one more day."
Yet when (the soft and scented gloom Scarce lighted by the dying fire) His arms caressed her youth and bloom, With him it was not all desire.
"For me," he whispered, as he lay, "But little life remains to live. One thing I crave to take away: You have the gift; but will you give?
"If I could know some child of mine Would live his life, and see the sun Across these fields of poppies shine, What should I care that mine is done?
"To die would not be dying quite, Leaving a little life behind, You, were you kind to me to-night, Could grant me this; but--are you kind?
"See, I have something here for you For you and It, if It there be." Soft in the gloom her glances grew, With gentle tears he could not see.
He took the chain from off his neck, Hid in the silver chain there lay Three rubies, without flaw or fleck. She answered softly "I will stay."
He drew her close; the moonless skies Shed little light; the fire was dead. Soft pity filled her youthful eyes, And many tender things she said.
Throughout the hot and silent night All that he asked of her she gave. And, left alone ere morning light, He went serenely to the grave,