Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,
   Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,
   Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
                                Even less than these!

   Less than the weed, that grows beside thy door,
   Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
   Less than the need thou hast in life of me.
                                Even less am I.

   Since I, O Lord, am nothing unto thee,
   See here thy Sword, I make it keen and bright,
   Love's last reward, Death, comes to me to-night,
                                Farewell,  Zahir-u-din.

   Oh, that my blood were water, thou athirst,
   And thou and I in some far Desert land,
   How would I shed it gladly, if but first
   It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand.

   Once,—Ah, the Gods were good to me,—I threw
   Myself upon a poison snake, that crept
   Where my Beloved—a lesser love we knew
   Than this which now consumes me wholly—slept.

   But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee?
   By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above
   The need of all or any aid from me,
   Too high for service, as too far for love.

   Song by Valgovind

   The fields are full of Poppies, and the skies are very blue,
   By the Temple in the coppice, I wait, Beloved, for you.
   The level land is sunny, and the errant air is gay,
   With scent of rose and honey; will you come to me to-day?

   From carven walls above me, smile lovers; many a pair.
   "Oh, take this rose and love me!" she has twined it in her hair.
   He advances, she retreating, pursues and holds her fast,
   The sculptor left them meeting, in a close embrace at last.

   Through centuries together, in the carven stone they lie,
   In the glow of golden weather, and endless azure sky.
   Oh, that we, who have for pleasure so short and scant a stay,
   Should waste our summer leisure; will you come to me to-day?

   The Temple bells are ringing, for the marriage month has come.
   I hear the women singing, and the throbbing of the drum.
   And when the song is failing, or the drums a moment mute,
   The weirdly wistful wailing of the melancholy flute.

   Little life has got to offer, and little man to lose,
   Since to-day Fate deigns to proffer, Oh wherefore, then, refuse
   To take this transient hour, in the dusky Temple gloom
   While the poppies are in flower, and the mangoe trees abloom.

   And if Fate remember later, and come to claim her due,
   What sorrow will be greater than the Joy I had with you?
   For to-day, lit by your laughter, between the crushing years,
   I will chance, in the hereafter, eternities of tears.

   The Desert is parched in the burning sun
   And the grass is scorched and white.
   But the sand is passed, and the march is done,
   We are camping here to-night.
        I sit in the shade of the Temple walls,
        While the cadenced water evenly falls,
        And a peacock out of the Jungle calls
        To another, on yonder tomb.
       Above, half seen, in the lofty gloom,
       Strange works of a long dead people loom,
   Obscene and savage and half effaced—
   An elephant hunt, a musicians' feast—
   And curious matings of man and beast;
   What did they mean to the men who are long since dust?
        Whose fingers traced,
        In this arid waste,
   These rioting, twisted, figures of love and lust.

   Strange, weird things that no man may say,
   Things Humanity hides away;—
        Secretly done,—
   Catch the light of the living day,
        Smile in the sun.
   Cruel things that man may not name,
   Naked here, without fear or shame,
        Laughed in the carven stone.

   Deep in the Temple's innermost Shrine is set,
       Where the bats and shadows dwell,
   The worn and ancient Symbol of Life, at rest
       In its oval shell,
   By which the men, who, of old, the land possessed,
   Represented their Great Destroying Power.
        I cannot forget
   That, just as my life was touching its fullest flower,
   Love came and destroyed it all in a single hour,
        Therefore the dual Mystery suits me well.

                           Sitting alone,
   The tank's deep water is cool and sweet,
   Soothing and fresh to the wayworn feet,
           Dreaming, under the Tamarind shade,
           One silently thanks the men who made
   So green a place in this bitter land
                Of sunburnt sand.

   The peacocks scream and the grey Doves coo,
   Little green, talkative Parrots woo,
   And small grey Squirrels, with fear askance,
   At alien me, in their furtive glance,
   Come shyly, with quivering fur, to see
   The stranger under their Tamarind tree.
          Daylight dies,
   The Camp fires redden like angry eyes,
          The Tents show white,
           In the glimmering light,
   Spirals of tremulous smoke arise, to the purple skies,
         And the hum of the Camp sounds like the sea,
     Drifting over the sand to me.
          Afar, in the Desert some wild voice sings
          To a jangling zither with minor strings,
            And, under the stars growing keen above,
            I think of the thing that I love.

         A beautiful thing, alert, serene,
   With passionate, dreaming, wistful eyes,
   Dark and deep as mysterious skies,
   Seen from a vessel at sea.
   Alas, you drifted away from me,
   And Time and Space have rushed in between,
   But they cannot undo the Thing-that-has-been,
               Though it never again may be.
   You were mine, from dusk until dawning light,
   For the perfect whole of that bygone night
               You belonged to me!

   They say that Love is a light thing,
   A foolish thing and a slight thing,
               A ripe fruit, rotten at core;
     They speak in this futile fashion
     To me, who am wracked with passion,
     Tormented beyond compassion,
               For ever and ever more.

   They say that Possession lessens a lover's delight,
     As radiant mornings fade into afternoon.
   I held what I loved in my arms for many a night,
     Yet ever the morning lightened the sky too soon.

   Beyond our tents the sands stretch level and far,
   Around this little oasis of Tamarind trees.
   A curious, Eastern fragrance fills the breeze
   From the ruinous Temple garden where roses are.

   I dream of the rose-like perfume that fills your hair,
   Of times when my lips were free of your soft closed eyes,
   While down in the tank the waters ripple and rise
   And the flying foxes silently cleave the air.

   The present is subtly welded into the past,
   My love of you with the purple Indian dusk,
   With its clinging scent of sandal incense and musk,
            And withering jasmin flowers.
   My eyes grow dim and my senses fail at last,
            While the lonely hours
   Follow each other, silently, one by one,
                 Till the night is almost done.

   Then weary, and drunk with dreams, with my garments damp
   And heavy with dew, I wander towards the camp.
     Tired, with a brain in which fancy and fact are blent,
     I stumble across the ropes till I reach my tent
   And then to rest. To ensweeten my sleep with lies,
   To dream I lie in the light of your long lost eyes,
                   My lips set free.
   To love and linger over your soft loose hair—
   To dream I lay your delicate beauty bare
                   To solace my fevered eyes.
   Ah,—if my life might end in a night like this—
   Drift into death from dreams of your granted kiss!

   You are my God, and I would fain adore You
     With sweet and secret rites of other days.
   Burn scented oil in silver lamps before You,
     Pour perfume on Your feet with prayer and praise.

   Yet are we one; Your gracious condescension
     Granted, and grants, the loveliness I crave.
   One, in the perfect sense of Eastern mention,
     "Gold and the Bracelet, Water and the Wave."

   As one may sip a Stranger's Bowl
   You gave yourself but not your soul.
   I wonder, now that time has passed,
   Where you will come to rest at last.

   You gave your beauty for an hour,
   I held it gently as a flower.
   You wished to leave me, told me so,—
   I kissed your feet and let you go.

   Whether I loved you who shall say?
   Whether I drifted down your way
   In the endless River of Chance and Change,
   And you woke the strange
   Unknown longings that have no names,
   But burn us all in their hidden flames,
             Who shall say?

   Life is a strange and a wayward thing:
   We heard the bells of the Temples ring,
   The married children, in passing, sing.
   The month of marriage, the month of spring,
   Was full of the breath of sunburnt flowers
   That bloom in a fiercer light than ours,
   And, under a sky more fiercely blue,
             I came to you!

   You told me tales of your vivid life
   Where death was cruel and danger rife—
   Of deep dark forests, of poisoned trees,
   Of pains and passions that scorch and freeze,
   Of southern noontides and eastern nights,
   Where love grew frantic with strange delights,
   While men were slaying and maidens danced,
   Till I, who listened, lay still, entranced.
   Then, swift as a swallow heading south,
             I kissed your mouth!

   One night when the plains were bathed in blood
   From sunset light in a crimson flood,
   We wandered under the young teak trees
   Whose branches whined in the light night breeze;
   You led me down to the water's brink,
   "The Spring where the Panthers come to drink
   At night; there is always water here
   Be the season never so parched and sere."
   Have we souls of beasts in the forms of men?
   I fain would have tasted your life-blood then.

   The night fell swiftly; this sudden land
   Can never lend us a twilight strand
   'Twixt the daylight shore and the ocean night,
   But takes—as it gives—at once, the light.
   We laid us down on the steep hillside,
   While far below us wild peacocks cried,
   And we sometimes heard, in the sunburnt grass,
   The stealthy steps of the Jungle pass.
   We listened; knew not whether they went
   On love or hunger the more intent.
   And under your kisses I hardly knew
   Whether I loved or hated you.

   But your words were flame and your kisses fire,
   And who shall resist a strong desire?
   Not I, whose life is a broken boat
   On a sea of passions, adrift, afloat.
   And, whether I came in love or hate,
   That I came to you was written by Fate
   In every hue of the blood-red sky,
   In every tone of the peacocks' cry.

   While every gust of the Jungle night
   Was fanning the flame you had set alight.
   For these things have power to stir the blood
   And compel us all to their own chance mood.
   And to love or not we are no more free
   Than a ripple to rise and leave the sea.

   We are ever and always slaves of these,
   Of the suns that scorch and the winds that freeze,
   Of the faint sweet scents of the sultry air,
   Of the half heard howl from the far off lair.
   These chance things master us ever.  Compel
   To the heights of Heaven, the depths of Hell.

   Whether I love you?  You do not ask,
   Nor waste yourself on the thankless task.
   I give your kisses at least return,
   What matter whether they freeze or burn.
   I feel the strength of your fervent arms,
   What matter whether it heals or harms.

   You are wise; you take what the Gods have sent.
   You ask no question, but rest content
   So I am with you to take your kiss,
   And perhaps I value you more for this.
   For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,
   To take what Fate, or the Gods, may give,
   To ask no question, to make no prayer,
   To kiss the lips and caress the hair,
   Speed passion's ebb as you greet its flow,—
   To have,—to hold,—and,—in time,—let go!

   And this is our Wisdom: we rest together
   On the great lone hills in the storm-filled weather,
   And watch the skies as they pale and burn,
   The golden stars in their orbits turn,
   While Love is with us, and Time and Peace,
   And life has nothing to give but these.
   But, whether you love me, who shall say,
   Or whether you, drifting down my way
   In the great sad River of Chance and Change,
   With your looks so weary and words so strange,
   Lit my soul from some hidden flame
   To a passionate longing without a name,
             Who shall say?
   Not I, who am but a broken boat,
   Content for a while to drift afloat
   In the little noontide of love's delights
             Between two Nights.

   Waters glisten and sunbeams quiver,
             The wind blows fresh and free.
   Take my boat to your breast, O River!
             Carry me out to Sea!

   This land is laden with fruit and grain,
             With never a place left free for flowers,
   A fruitful mother; but I am fain
             For brides in their early bridal hours.

   Take my boat to your breast, O River!
             Carry me out to Sea!

   The Sea, beloved by a thousand ships,
             Is maiden ever, and fresh and free.
   Ah, for the touch of her cool green lips,
             Carry me out to Sea!

   Take my boat to your breast, dear River,
             And carry it out to Sea!

   You never loved me, and yet to save me,
   One unforgetable night you gave me
   Such chill embraces as the snow-covered heights
   Receive from clouds, in northern, Auroral nights.
   Such keen communion as the frozen mere
   Has with immaculate moonlight, cold and clear.
   And all desire,
   Like failing fire,
   Died slowly, faded surely, and sank to rest
   Against the delicate chillness of your breast.

   Love me a little, Lord, or let me go,
   I am so weary walking to and fro
   Through all your lonely halls that were so sweet
   Did they but echo to your coming feet.

   When by the flowered scrolls of lace-like stone
   Our women's windows—I am left alone,
   Across the yellow Desert, looking forth,
   I see the purple hills towards the north.

   Behind those jagged Mountains' lilac crest
   Once lay the captive bird's small rifled nest.
   There was my brother slain, my sister bound;
   His blood, her tears, drunk by the thirsty ground.

   Then, while the burning village smoked on high,
   And desecrated all the peaceful sky,
   They took us captive, us, born frank and free,
   On fleet, strong camels through the sandy sea.

   Yet, when we rested, night-times, on the sand
   By the rare waters of this dreary land,
   Our captors, ere the camp was wrapped in sleep,
   Talked, and I listened, and forgot to weep.

   "Is he not brave and fair?" they asked, "our King,
   Slender as one tall palm-tree by a spring;
   Erect, serene, with gravely brilliant eyes,
   As deeply dark as are these desert skies.

   "Truly no bitter fate," they said, and smiled,
   "Awaits the beauty of this captured child!"
   Then something in my heart began to sing,
   And secretly I longed to see the King.

   Sometimes the other maidens sat in tears,
   Sometimes, consoled, they jested at their fears,
   Musing what lovers Time to them would bring;
   But I was silent, thinking of the King.

   Till, when the weary endless sands were passed,
   When, far to south, the city rose at last,
   All speech forsook me and my eyelids fell,
   Since I already loved my Lord so well.

   Then the division: some were sent away
   To merchants in the city; some, they say,
   To summer palaces, beyond the walls.
   But me they took straight to the Sultan's halls.

   Every morning I would wake and say
   "Ah, sisters, shall I see our Lord to-day?"
   The women robed me, perfumed me, and smiled;
   "When were his feet unfleet to pleasure, child?"

   And tales they told me of his deeds in war,
   Of how his name was reverenced afar;
   And, crouching closer in the lamp's faint glow,
   They told me of his beauty, speaking low.

   What need, what need? the women wasted art;
   I love you with every fibre of my heart
   Already.  My God! when did I not love you,
   In life, in death, when shall I not love you?

   You never seek me.  All day long I lie
   Watching the changes of the far-off sky
   Behind the lattice-work of carven stone.
   And all night long, alas! I lie alone.

   But you come never.  Ah, my Lord the King,
   How can you find it well to do this thing?
   Come once, come only: sometimes, as I lie,
   I doubt if I shall see you first, or die.

   Ah, could I hear your footsteps at the door
   Hallow the lintel and caress the floor,
   Then I might drink your beauty, satisfied,
   Die of delight, ere you could reach my side.

   Alas, you come not, Lord: life's flame burns low,
   Faint for a loveliness it may not know,
   Faint for your face, Oh, come—come soon to me—
   Lest, though you should not, Death should, set me free!

   Bridegroom   I give you my house and my lands, all golden with harvest;
   My sword, my shield, and my jewels, the spoils of my strife,
   My strength and my dreams, and aught I have gathered of glory,
   And to-night—to-night, I shall give you my very life.

   Bride   I may not raise my eyes, O my Lord, towards you,
   And I may not speak: what matter? my voice would fail.
   But through my downcast lashes, feeling your beauty,
   I shiver and burn with pleasure beneath my veil.

   Younger Sisters   We throw sweet perfume upon her head,
   And delicate flowers round her bed.
   Ah, would that it were our turn to wed!

   Mother   I see my daughter, vaguely, through my tears,
   (Ah, lost caresses of my early years!)
   I see the bridegroom, King of men in truth!
   (Ah, my first lover, and my vanished youth!)

   Bride   Almost I dread this night. My senses fail me.
   How shall I dare to clasp a thing so dear?
   Many have feared your name, but I your beauty.
   Lord of my life, be gentle to my fear!

   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!

   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.

   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.

   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.

   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.

   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!

   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.

   But as her lips met his she paused, in terror and dismay,
   The white moon showed her by her side asleep a Leper lay.

         "Ah, Moghra flowers, white Moghra flowers,
           All love is blind, they say;
         The Moghra flowers, so sweet, so sweet,
           Though love be burnt away!"