Last Poems Part 7

Mine is a painful fire, at its whitest heat.

Who said that Beauty was ever a gentle joy?

Thine is a sword that flashes but to destroy.

Though mine eyes rose up from thy Beauty's banquet, calm and refreshed, My lips, that were granted naught, can find no rest.

My soul was linked with thine, through speech and silent hours, As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister flowers.

But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind, Who follows his master ever, but far behind,

Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell Rises up with angry protest, "It is not well!

Night is falling; thou hast departed; I am alone; And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast not given--I have not known!"

II

Somewhere, Oh, My Beloved One, the house is standing, Waiting for thee and me; for our first caresses.

It may be a river-boat, or a wave-washed landing, The shade of a tree in the jungle's dim recesses, Some far-off mountain tent, ill-pitched and lonely, Or the naked vault of the purple heavens only.

But the Place is waiting there; till the Hour shall show it, And our footsteps, following Fate, find it and know it.

Where we shall worship the greatest of all the G.o.ds in his pomp and power,-- I sometimes think that I shall not care to survive that hour!

Feroke

The rice-birds fly so white, so silver white, The velvet rice-flats lie so emerald green, My heart inhales, with sorrowful delight, The sweet and poignant sadness of the scene.

The swollen tawny river seeks the sea, Its hungry waters, never satisfied, Beflecked with fallen log and torn-up tree, Engulph the fisher-huts on either side.

The current brought a stranger yesterday, And laid him on the sand beneath a palm, His worn young face was partly torn away, His eyes, that saw the world no more, were calm

We could not close his eyelids, stiff with blood,-- But, oh, my brother, I had changed with thee For I am still tormented in the flood, Whilst thou hast done thy work, and reached the sea.

My Desire

Fate has given me many a gift To which men most aspire, Lovely, precious and costly things, But not my heart's desire.

Many a man has a secret dream Of where his soul would be, Mine is a low verandah'd house In a tope beside the sea.

Over the roof tall palms should wave, Swaying from side to side, Every night we should fall asleep To the rhythm of the tide.

The dawn should be gay with song of birds, And the stir of fluttering wings.

Surely the joy of life is hid In simple and tender things!

At eve the waves would shimmer with gold In the rosy sunset rays, Emerald velvet flats of rice Would rest the landward gaze.

A boat must rock at the laterite steps In a reef-protected pool, For we should sail through the starlit night When the winds were calm and cool.

I am so tired of all this world, Its folly and fret and care.

Find me a little scented home Amongst thy loosened hair.

Give me a soft and secret place Against thine amber breast, Where, hidden away from all mankind, My soul may come to rest.

Many a man has a secret dream Of where his life might be; Mine is a lovely, lonely place With sunshine and the sea.

Sher Afzul

This was the tale Sher Afzul told to me, While the spent camels bubbled on their knees, And ruddy camp-fires twinkled through the gloom Sweet with the fragrance from the Sinjib trees.

I had a friend who lay, condemned to death In gaol for murder, wholly innocent, Yet caught in webs of luckless circ.u.mstance;-- Thou know'st how lies, of good and ill intent,

Cl.u.s.ter like flies around a justice-court, Wheel within wheel, revolving screw on screw;-- But from his prison he escaped and fled, Keeping his liberty a night or two

Among the lonely hills, where, shackled still, He braved a village, seeking for a file To loose his irons; alas! he lost his life Through the base sweetness of a woman's smile.

Lovely she was, and young, who gave the youth Kind words, and promised succor and repose, Till on the quilt of false security He found exhausted sleep; but, ere he rose,

Entered the guards, brought by her messenger.

Thus was he captured, slain, and on her breast Soon shone the guerdon of her treachery, The price of blood; in gold made manifest.

I might have killed her? Brave men have died thus.

Revenge demanded keener punishment.

So I walked softly on those lilac hills, Touching my _rhibab_ lightly as I went.

I found her fair: 't was no unpleasant task In the young spring-time when the fruit-trees flower, To pa.s.s her door, and pause, and pa.s.s again, Shading mine eyes against her beauty's power.

Warmly I wooed her, while the almond trees Broke into fragile clouds of rosy snow.

Her dawning pa.s.sion feared her lord's return, Ever she pleaded softly, "Let us go."

But I spoke tenderly, and said, "Beloved, Shall not thy lips give orders to my heart?

Yet there is one small matter in these hills Claiming attention ere I can depart.

"Let us not waste these days; thine absent lord Cannot return, thou know'st, before the snow Has melted, and the almond fruits appear."

This time she answered, "Naught but thee I know!"

I too was young; I could have loved her well When her soft eyes across the twilight burned; But suddenly, around her amber neck, The golden beads would sparkle as she turned.

_And I remembered_; swift mine eyelids fell To hide the hate that festered in my soul, Ever more deeply, with the rising fear That Love might wrench Revenge from my control.

But when at last she, acquiescent, lay In the sweet-scented shadow of the firs, Lovely and broken, granting--asking--all, It was _his_ eyes I met: not hers--not hers!