India's Love Lyrics

   Just in the hush before dawn
   A little wistful wind is born.
   A little chilly errant breeze,
   That thrills the grasses, stirs the trees.
   And, as it wanders on its way,
   While yet the night is cool and dark,
   The first carol of the lark,—
   Its plaintive murmurs seem to say
   "I wait the sorrows of the day."

   Beloved! your hair was golden
   As tender tints of sunrise,
   As corn beside the River
         In softly varying hues.
   I loved you for your slightness,
   Your melancholy sweetness,
   Your changeful eyes, that promised
         What your lips would still refuse.

   You came to me, and loved me,
   Were mine upon the River,
   The azure water saw us
         And the blue transparent sky;
   The Lotus flowers knew it,
   Our happiness together,
   While life was only River,
         Only love, and you and I.

   Love wakened on the River,
   To sounds of running water,
   With silver Stars for witness
         And reflected Stars for light;
   Awakened to existence,
   With ripples for first music
   And sunlight on the River
         For earliest sense of sight.

   Love grew upon the River
   Among the scented flowers,
   The open rosy flowers
         Of the Lotus buds in bloom—
   Love, brilliant as the Morning,
   More fervent than the Noon-day,
   And tender as the Twilight
         In its blue transparent gloom.

   Love died upon the River!
   Cold snow upon the mountains,
   The Lotus leaves turned yellow
         And the water very grey.
   Our kisses faint and falter,
   The clinging hands unfasten,
   The golden time is over
         And our passion dies away.

           Away.  To be forgotten,
           A ripple on the River,
           That flashes in the sunset,
           That flashed,—and died away.

   Second Song: The Girl from Baltistan

                            Throb, throb, throb,
   Far away in the blue transparent Night,
   On the outer horizon of a dreaming consciousness,
   She hears the sound of her lover's nearing boat
               Afar, afloat
   On the river's loneliness, where the Stars are the only light;
      Hear the sound of the straining wood
          Like a broken sob
          Of a heart's distress,
      Loving misunderstood.

   She lies, with her loose hair spent in soft disorder,
   On a silken sheet with a purple woven border,
   Every cell of her brain is latent fire,
   Every fibre tense with restrained desire.
          And the straining oars sound clearer, clearer,
          The boat is approaching nearer, nearer;
        "How to wait through the moments' space
        Till I see the light of my lover's face?"

                            Throb, throb, throb,
   The sound dies down the stream
   Till it only clings at the senses' edge
   Like a half-remembered dream.
         Doubtless, he in the silence lies,
         His fair face turned to the tender skies,
         Starlight touching his sleeping eyes.
   While his boat caught in the thickset sedge
   And the waters round it gurgle and sob,
         Or floats set free on the river's tide,
                                  Oars laid aside.

   She is awake and knows no rest,
   Passion dies and is dispossessed
          Of his brief, despotic power.
   But the Brain, once kindled, would still be afire
   Were the whole world pasture to its desire,
   And all of love, in a single hour,—
   A single wine cup, filled to the brim,
                              Given to slake its thirst.

   Some there are who are thus-wise cursed
         Times that follow fulfilled desire
         Are of all their hours the worst.
   They find no Respite and reach no Rest,
   Though passion fail and desire grow dim,
         No assuagement comes from the thing possessed
                      For possession feeds the fire.

        "Oh, for the life of the bright hued things
          Whose marriage and death are one,
        A floating fusion on golden wings.
          Alit with passion and sun!

        "But we who re-marry a thousand times,
          As the spirit or senses will,
        In a thousand ways, in a thousand climes,
          We remain unsatisfied still."

   As her lover left her, alone, awake she lies,
   With a sleepless brain and weary, half-closed eyes.
   She turns her face where the purple silk is spread,
   Still sweet with delicate perfume his presence shed.
   Her arms remembered his vanished beauty still,
   And, reminiscent of clustered curls, her fingers thrill.
   While the wonderful, Starlit Night wears slowly on
   Till the light of another day, serene and wan,
                              Pierces the eastern skies.

   Love, let me thank you for this!
     Now we have drifted apart,
   Wandered away from the sea,—
     For the fresh touch of your kiss,
   For the young warmth of your heart,
     For your youth given to me.

   Thanks: for the curls of your hair,
     Softer than silk to the hand,
   For the clear gaze of your eyes.
     For yourself: delicate, fair,
   Seen as you lay on the sand,
     Under the violet skies.

   Thanks: for the words that you said,—
     Secretly, tenderly sweet,
   All through the tropical day,
     Till, when the sunset was red,
   I, who lay still at your feet,
     Felt my life ebbing away,

   Weary and worn with desire,
     Only yourself could console.
   Love let me thank you for this!
     For that fierce fervour and fire
   Burnt through my lips to my soul
     From the white heat of your kiss!

   You were the essence of Spring,
     Wayward and bright as a flame:
   Though we have drifted apart,
     Still how the syllables sing
   Mixed in your musical name,
     Deep in the well of my heart!

   Once in the lingering light,
     Thrown from the west on the Sea,
   Laid you your garments aside,
     Slender and goldenly bright,
   Glimmered your beauty, set free,
     Bright as a pearl in the tide.

   Once, ere the thrill of the dawn
     Silvered the edge of the sea,
   I, who lay watching you rest,—
     Pale in the chill of the morn
   Found you still dreaming of me
     Stilled by love's fancies possessed.

   Fallen on sorrowful days,
     Love, let me thank you for this,
   You were so happy with me!
     Wrapped in Youth's roseate haze,
   Wanting no more than my kiss
     By the blue edge of the sea!

   Ah, for those nights on the sand
     Under the palms by the sea,
   For the strange dream of those days
     Spent in the passionate land,
   For your youth given to me,
     I am your debtor always!

   "Is it safe to lie so lonely when the summer twilight closes
   No companion maidens, only you asleep among the roses?

   "Thirteen, fourteen years you number, and your hair is soft and scented,
   Perilous is such a slumber in the twilight all untented.

   "Lonely loveliness means danger, lying in your rose-leaf nest,
   What if some young passing stranger broke into your careless rest?"

   But she would not heed the warning, lay alone serene and slight,
   Till the rosy spears of morning slew the darkness of the night.

   Young love, walking softly, found her, in the scented, shady closes,
   Threw his ardent arms around her, kissed her lips beneath the roses.

   And she said, with smiles and blushes, "Would that I had sooner known!
   Never now the morning thrushes wake and find me all alone.

   "Since you said the rose-leaf cover sweet protection gave, but slight,
   I have found this dear young lover to protect me through the night!"

   Pale hands I love beside the Shalimar,
     Where are you now?  Who lies beneath your spell?
   Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
     Before you agonise them in farewell?

   Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
     Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
   How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins
     Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

   Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
     On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
   I would have rather felt you round my throat,
     Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

   Softly the feathery Palm-trees fade in the violet Distance,
   Faintly the lingering light touches the edge of the sea,
   Sadly the Music of Waves, drifts, faint as an Anthem's insistence,
   Heard in the aisles of a dream, over the sandhills, to me.

   Now that the Lights are reversed, and the Singing changed into sighing,
   Now that the wings of our fierce, fugitive passion are furled,
   Take I unto myself, all alone in the light that is dying,
   Much of the sorrow that lies hid at the Heart of the World.

   Sad am I, sad for your loss: for failing the charm of your presence,
   Even the sunshine has paled, leaving the Zenith less blue.
   Even the ocean lessens the light of its green opalescence,
   Since, to my sorrow I loved, loved and grew weary of, you.

   Why was our passion so fleeting, why had the flush of your beauty
   Only so slender a spell, only so futile a power?
   Yet, even thus ever is life, save when long custom or duty
   Moulds into sober fruit Love's fragile and fugitive flower.

   Fain would my soul have been faithful; never an alien pleasure
   Lured me away from the light lit in your luminous eyes,
   But we have altered the World as pitiful man has leisure
   To criticise, balance, take counsel, assuredly lies.

   All through the centuries Man has gathered his flower, and fenced it,
   —Infinite strife to attain; infinite struggle to keep,—
   Holding his treasure awhile, all Fate and all forces against it,
   Knowing it his no more, if ever his vigilance sleep.

   But we have altered the World as pitiful man has grown stronger,
   So that the things we love are as easily kept as won,
   Therefore the ancient fight can engage and detain us no longer,
   And all too swiftly, alas, passion is over and done.

   Far too speedily now we can gather the coveted treasure,
   Enjoy it awhile, be satiated, begin to tire;
   And what shall be done henceforth with the profitless after-leisure,
   Who has the breath to kindle the ash of a faded fire?

   Ah, if it only had lasted!  After my ardent endeavour
   Came the delirious Joy, flooding my life like a sea,
   Days of delight that are burnt on the brain for ever and ever,
   Days and nights when you loved, before you grew weary of me.

   Softly the sunset decreases dim in the violet Distance,
   Even as Love's own fervour has faded away from me,
   Leaving the weariness, the monotonous Weight of Existence,—
   All the farewells in the world weep in the sound of the sea.

   Oh, straight, white road that runs to meet,
            Across green fields, the blue green sea,
   You knew the little weary feet
            Of my child bride that was to be!

   Her people brought her from the shore
            One golden day in sultry June,
   And I stood, waiting, at the door,
            Praying my eyes might see her soon.

   With eager arms, wide open thrown,
            Now never to be satisfied!
   Ere I could make my love my own
            She closed her amber eyes and died.

   Alas! alas! they took no heed
            How frail she was, my little one,
   But brought her here with cruel speed
            Beneath the fierce, relentless sun.

   We laid her on the marriage bed
            The bridal flowers in her hand,
   A maiden from the ocean led
            Only, alas! to die inland.

   I walk alone; the air is sweet,
            The white road wanders to the sea,
   I dream of those two little feet
            That grew so tired in reaching me.

   Who does not feel desire unending
     To solace through his daily strife,
   With some mysterious Mental Blending,
     The hungry loneliness of life?

   Until, by sudden passion shaken,
     As terriers shake a rat at play,
   He finds, all blindly, he has taken
     The old, Hereditary way.

   Yet, in the moment of communion,
     The very heart of passion's fire,
   His spirit spurns the mortal union,
     "Not this, not this, the Soul's desire!"

        *        *        *        *

   Oh You, by whom my life is riven,
     And reft away from my control,
   Take back the hours of passion given!
     Love me one moment from your soul.

   Although I once, in ardent fashion,
     Implored you long to give me this;
   (In hopes to stem, or stifle, passion)
     Your hair to touch, your lips to kiss

   Now that your gracious self has granted
     The loveliness you hold as naught,
   I find, alas! not that I wanted—
     Possession has not stifled Thought.

   Desire its aim has only shifted,—
     Built hopes upon another plan,
   And I in love for you have drifted
     Beyond all passion known to man.

   Beyond all dreams of soft caresses
     The solacing of any kiss,—
   Beyond the fragrance of your tresses
     (Once I had sold my soul for this!)

   But now I crave no mortal union
     (Thanks for that sweetness in the past);
   I need some subtle, strange communion,
     Some sense that I join you, at last.

   Long past the pulse and pain of passion,
     Long left the limits of all love,—
   I crave some nearer, fuller fashion,
     Some unknown way, beyond, above,—

   Some infinitely inner fusion,
     As Wave with Water; Flame with Fire,—
   Let me dream once the dear delusion
     That I am You, Oh, Heart's Desire!

   Your kindness lent to my caresses
     That beauty you so lightly prize,—
   The midnight of your sable tresses,
     The twilight of your shadowed eyes.

   Ah, for that gift all thanks are given!
     Yet, Oh, adored, beyond control,
   Count all the passionate past forgiven
     And love me once, once, from your soul.

   The tropic day's redundant charms
     Cool twilight soothes away,
   The sun slips down behind the palms
     And leaves the landscape grey.
           I want to take you in my arms
           And kiss your lips away!

   I wake with sunshine in my eyes
     And find the morning blue,
   A night of dreams behind me lies
     And all were dreams of you!
           Ah, how I wish the while I rise,
           That what I dream were true.

   The weary day's laborious pace,
     I hasten and beguile
   By fancies, which I backwards trace
     To things I loved erstwhile;
           The weary sweetness of your face,
           Your faint, illusive smile.

   The silken softness of your hair
     Where faint bronze shadows are,
   Your strangely slight and youthful air,
     No passions seem to mar,—
           Oh, why, since Fate has made you fair,
           Must Fortune keep you far?

   Thus spent, the day so long and bright
     Less hot and brilliant seems,
   Till in a final flare of light
     The sun withdraws his beams.
           Then, in the coolness of the night,
           I meet you in my dreams!

   Second Song

   How much I loved that way you had
   Of smiling most, when very sad,
   A smile which carried tender hints
       Of delicate tints
       And warbling birds,
       Of sun and spring,
   And yet, more than all other thing,
   Of Weariness beyond all Words!

   None other ever smiled that way,
       None that I know,—
   The essence of all Gaiety lay,
   Of all mad mirth that men may know,
   In that sad smile, serene and slow,
   That on your lips was wont to play.

   It needed many delicate lines
   And subtle curves and roseate tints
   To make that weary radiant smile;
   It flickered, as beneath the vines
   The sunshine through green shadow glints
   On the pale path that lies below,
   Flickered and flashed, and died away,
   But the strange thoughts it woke meanwhile
       Were wont to stay.

   Thoughts of Strange Things you used to know
   In dim, dead lives, lived long ago,
   Some madly mirthful Merriment
   Whose lingering light is yet unspent,—
   Some unimaginable Woe,—
   Your strange, sad smile forgets these not,
   Though you, yourself, long since, forgot!

   Third Song, written during Fever

   To-night the clouds hang very low,
       They take the Hill-tops to their breast,
       And lay their arms about the fields.
   The wind that fans me lying low,
       Restless with great desire for rest,
       No cooling touch of freshness yields.

   I, sleepless through the stifling heat,
       Watch the pale Lightning's constant glow
       Between the wide set open doors.
   I lie and long amidst the heat,—
       The fever that my senses know,
       For that cool slenderness of yours.

   So delicate and cool you are!
       A roseleaf that has lain in snow,
       A snowflake tinged with sunset fire.
   You do not know, so young you are,
       How Fever fans the senses' glow
       To uncontrollable desire!

   And fills the spaces of the night
       With furious and frantic thought,
       One would not dare to think by day.
   Ah, if you came to me to-night
       These visions would be turned to naught,
       These hateful dreams be held at bay!

   But you are far, and Loneliness
       My only lover through the night;
       And not for any word or prayer
   Would you console my loneliness
       Or lend yourself, serene and slight,
       And the cool clusters of your hair.

   All through the night I long for you,
       As shipwrecked men in tropics yearn
       For the fresh flow of streams and springs.
   My fevered fancies follow you
       As dying men in deserts turn
       Their thoughts to clear and chilly things.

   Such dreams are mine, and such my thirst,
       Unceasing and unsatisfied,
       Until the night is burnt away
   Among these dreams and fevered thirst,
       And, through the open doorways, glide
       The white feet of the coming day.

   This man has taken my Husband's life
     And laid my Brethren low,
   No sister indeed, were I, no wife,
     To pardon and let him go.

   Yet why does he look so young and slim
     As he weak and wounded lies?
   How hard for me to be harsh to him
     With his soft, appealing eyes.

   His hair is ruffled upon the stone
     And the slender wrists are bound,
   So young! and yet he has overthrown
     His scores on the battle ground.

   Would I were only a slave to-day,
     To whom it were right and meet
   To wash the stains of the War away,
     The dust from the weary feet.

   Were I but one of my serving girls
     To solace his pain to rest!
   Shake out the sand from the soft loose curls,
     And hold him against my breast!

   Have we such beauty around our Throne?
     Such lithe and delicate strength?
   Would God that I were the senseless stone
     To support his slender length!

   I hate those wounds that trouble my sight,
     Unknown! how I wish you lay,
   Alone in my silken tent to-night
     While I charmed the pain away.

   I would lay you down on the Royal bed,
     I would bathe your wounds with wine,
   And setting your feet against my head
     Dream you were lover of mine.

   My Crown is heavy upon my hair,
     The Jewels weigh on my breast,
   All I would leave, with delight, to share
     Your pale and passionate rest!

   But hands grow restless about their swords,
     Lips murmur below their breath,
   "The Queen is silent too long!"  "My Lords,
     —Take him away to death!"

   Alas! alas! this wasted Night
   With all its Jasmin-scented air,
   Its thousand stars, serenely bright!
   I lie alone, and long for you,
   Long for your Champa-scented hair,
   Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;

   Long for the close-curved, delicate lips
   —Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine—
   Here, where the slender fountain drips,
   Here, where the yellow roses glow,
   Pale in the tender silver shine
   The stars across the garden throw.

   Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth!
   Why must we spend these lonely nights?
   The poets hardly speak the truth,—
   Despite their praiseful litany,
   His season is not all delights
   Nor every night an ecstasy!

   The very power and passion that make—
   Might make—his days one golden dream,
   How he must suffer for their sake!
   Till, in their fierce and futile rage,
   The baffled senses almost deem
   They might be happier in old age.

   Age that can find red roses sweet,
   And yet not crave a rose-red mouth;
   Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feet
   Of sweeter singers went his way;
   Inhale warm breezes from the South,
   Yet never fed his fancy stray.

   From some near Village I can hear
   The cadenced throbbing of a drum,
   Now softly distant, now more near;
   And in an almost human fashion,
   It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come
   Laden with sighs of fitful passion,

   To mock me, lying here alone
   Among the thousand useless flowers
   Upon the fountain's border-stone—
   Cold stone, that chills me as I lie
   Counting the slowly passing hours
   By the white spangles in the sky.

   Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate,
   Where, close together, side by side,
   Gay in their gauze and tinsel state
   With lips serene and downcast eyes,
   Sit the young bridegroom and his bride,
   While round them songs and laughter rise.

   They are together; Why are we
   So hopelessly, so far apart?
   Oh, I implore you, come to me!
   Come to me, Solace of mine eyes!
   Come Consolation of my heart!
   Light of my senses!  What replies?

   A little, languid, mocking breeze
   That rustles through the Jasmin flowers
   And stirs among the Tamarind trees;
   A little gurgle of the spray
   That drips, unheard, though silent hours,
   Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.

   Wind, have you never loved a rose?
   And water, seek you not the Sea?
   Why, therefore, mock at my repose?
   Is it my fault I am alone
   Beneath the feathery Tamarind tree
   Whose shadows over me are thrown?

   Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirst
   For all to me this night denied
   And drunk with longing, and accurst
   Beyond all chance of sleep or rest,
   With love, unslaked, unsatisfied,
   And dreams of beauty unpossessed.

   Hating the hour that brings you not,
   Mad at the space betwixt us twain,
   Sad for my empty arms, so hot
   And fevered, even the chilly stone
   Can scarcely cool their burning pain,—
   And oh, this sense of being alone!

   Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours,
   You bring me not my Life's Delight,
   My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers!
   You leave me loveless and forlorn,
   Pass on, most false and futile night,
   Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!

   Death and Famine on every side
       And never a sign of rain,
   The bones of those who have starved and died
       Unburied upon the plain.
   What care have I that the bones bleach white?
       To-morrow they may be mine,
   But I shall sleep in your arms to-night
       And drink your lips like wine!

   Cholera, Riot, and Sudden Death,
       And the brave red blood set free,
   The glazing eye and the failing breath,—
       But what are these things to me?
   Your breath is quick and your eyes are bright
       And your blood is red like wine,
   And I shall sleep in your arms to-night
       And hold your lips with mine!

   I hear the sound of a thousand tears,
       Like softly pattering rain,
   I see the fever, folly, and fears
       Fulfilling man's tale of pain.
   But for the moment your star is bright,
       I revel beneath its shine,
   For I shall sleep in your arms to-night
       And feel your lips on mine!

   And you need not deem me over cold,
       That I do not stop to think
   For all the pleasure this Life may hold
       Is on the Precipice brink.
   Thought could but lessen my soul's delight,
       And to-day she may not pine.
   For I shall lie in your arms to-night
       And close your lips with mine!

   I trust what sorrow the Fates may send
       I may carry quietly through,
   And pray for grace when I reach the end,
       To die as a man should do.
   To-day, at least, must be clear and bright,
       Without a sorrowful sign,
   Because I sleep in your arms to-night
       And feel your lips on mine!

   So on I work, in the blazing sun,
       To bury what dead we may,
   But glad, oh, glad, when the day is done
       And the night falls round us grey.
   Would those we covered away from sight
       Had a rest as sweet as mine!
   For I shall sleep in your arms to-night
       And drink your lips like wine!

   Sad is the Evening: all the level sand
     Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea,
   Tired of the green caresses of the land,
     Withdraws into its own infinity.

   But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn
     Filling the vacant spaces of the sky,
   While little winds blow here and there forlorn
     And all the stars, weary of shining, die.

   And more than desolate, to wake, to rise,
     Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still,
   What through the past night made my heaven, lies;
     And looking out across the window sill

   See, from the upper window's vantage ground,
     Mankind slip into harness once again,
   And wearily resume his daily round
     Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.

   How the sad thoughts slip back across the night:
     The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain.
   What use the raptures, passion and delight,
     Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.

   The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat
     The question: Whither all these passions tend;—
   This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet,
     So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?

   Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race,
     The only immortality we know,—
   Even if from the flower of our embrace
     Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,

   What were the use? the gain, to us or it,
     That we should cause another You or Me,—
   Another life, from our light passion lit,
     To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.

   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.

   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!

   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.

   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!

   '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.

   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.

   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,

   Happy; for even when the rope
     Confined his neck, his thoughts were free,
   And centered round his Secret Hope
     The little life that was to be.

   When Poppies bloomed again, she bore
     His child who gaily laughed and crowed,
   While round his tiny neck he wore
     The rubies given on the road.

   For his small sake she wished to wait,
     But vainly to forget she tried,
   And grieving for the Prisoner's fate,
     She broke her gentle heart and died.

   Dear is my inlaid sword; across the Border
   It brought me much reward; dear is my Mistress,
   The jewelled treasure of an amorous hour.
   Dear beyond measure are my dreams and Fancies.

   These I adore; for these I live and labour,
   Holding them more than sword or jewelled Mistress,
   For this indeed may rust, and that prove faithless,
   But, till my limbs are dust, I have my Fancies.