Georgian Poetry 1913-15 Part 19

How splendid in the morning glows the lily: with what grace he throws His supplication to the rose: do roses nod the head, Yasmin?

But when the silver dove descends I find the little flower of friends Whose very name that sweetly ends I say when I have said, Yasmin.

The morning light is clear and cold: I dare not in that light behold A whiter light, a deeper gold, a glory too far shed, Yasmin.

But when the deep red eye of day is level with the lone highway, And some to Mecca turn to pray, and I toward thy bed, Yasmin;

Or when the wind beneath the moon is drifting like a soul aswoon, And harping planets talk love's tune with milky wings outspread, Yasmin,

Shower down thy love, O burning bright! For one night or the other night Will come the Gardener in white, and gathered flowers are dead, Yasmin.

GATES OF DAMASCUS

Four great gates has the city of Damascus, And four Grand Wardens, on their spears reclining, All day long stand like tall stone men And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining.

'This is the song of the East Gate Warden When he locks the great gate and smokes in his garden'.

Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear, The Portal of Bagdad am I, the Doorway of Diarbekir.

The Persian dawn with new desires may net the flushing mountain spires, But my gaunt b.u.t.tress still rejects the suppliance of those mellow fires.

Pa.s.s not beneath, O Caravan, or pa.s.s not singing. Have you heard That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?

Pa.s.s not beneath! Men say there blows in stony deserts still a rose But with no scarlet to her leaf--and from whose heart no perfume flows.

Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale, thy sister rose? Wilt thou not fail When noonday flashes like a flail? Leave, nightingale, the Caravan!

Pa.s.s then, pa.s.s all! Bagdad! ye cry, and down the billows of blue sky Ye beat the bell that beats to h.e.l.l, and who shall thrust ye back? Not I.

The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red-- The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, O Caravan, O Caravan!

And one who licks his lips for thirst with fevered eyes shall face in fear The palms that wave, the streams that burst, his last mirage, O Caravan!

And one--the bird-voiced Singing-man--shall fall behind thee, Caravan!

And G.o.d shall meet him in the night, and he shall sing as best he can.

And one the Bedouin shall slay, and one, sand-stricken on the way, Go dark and blind; and one shall say--'How lonely is the Caravan!'

Pa.s.s out beneath, O Caravan, Doom's Caravan, Death's Caravan!

I had not told ye, fools, so much, save that I heard your Singing-man.

'This was sung by the West Gate's keeper When heaven's hollow dome grew deeper'.

I am the gate toward the sea: O sailor men, pa.s.s out from me!

I hear you high on Lebanon, singing the marvels of the sea.

The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea, The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea.

Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions and lily flowers, And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away the hours.

Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites the ground: The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back: and still no sound.

Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting in their dreams, From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a thousand streams.

Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or ripple stirs, And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal mariners.

Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish King Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards his magic ring:

And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged majesty, And take the World upon his back, and fling the World beyond the sea.

'This is the song of the North Gate's master, Who singeth fast, but drinketh faster.'

I am the gay Aleppo Gate: a dawn, a dawn and thou art there: Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast we hate!

Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas to dread; Homs shall behold thy morning meal, and Hama see thee safe in bed.

Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots, And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten bra.s.sware pots:

And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene retailers' price, And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice.

Some men of n.o.ble stock were made: some glory in the murder-blade: Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honourable Trade!

Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe! Their heads are weak; their pockets burn.

Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleik.u.m! Safe return!

'This is the song of the South Gate Holder, A silver man, but his song is older.'

I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall, The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all.

O spiritual pilgrim, rise: the night has grown her single horn: The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise.

To Meccah thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn: Ah, Hajji, whither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there?

G.o.d be thy guide from camp to camp: G.o.d be thy shade from well to well; G.o.d grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell.

And G.o.d shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowledge to endure This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again.

And G.o.d shall make thy soul a Gla.s.s where eighteen thousand aeons pa.s.s, And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the gra.s.s.

And son of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend.

THE DYING PATRIOT

Day breaks on England down the Kentish hills, Singing in the silence of the meadow-footing rills, Day of my dreams, O day!