Stars of the Desert

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Stars of the Desert

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To Aziz: Song of Mahomed Akram

To Aziz: Song of Mahomed Akram

Your beauty puts a barb into my soul, Strive as I will it never lets me go. My love has passed the frontiers of control, You are so fair and I desire you so.

Others may come and go, they are to me But changing mirage, transient, untrue, My faithlessness is but fidelity Since I am never faithful, but to you.

You are not kind to me, but many are And all their kindness does not make them dear; It may be you deceive me when afar Even as always you torment me near.

Yet is your beauty so divine a thing, So irreplaceable, so haunting sweet Against all reason, I am fain to fling My life, my youth, myself, beneath your feet.

Surf Song

Surf Song

My little one, come and listen To the calling of the sea, And watch how the wet sands glisten Where the surf has left them free. As thou and the wind together Shall frolic along the strand; Thy feet as light as a feather Will hardly dent the sand.

Unwind the veils that enfold thee, Thou never wast shy with me; The sea will rejoice to hold thee, The stars will delight to see. The beauty thou shalt discover Oh, Morning Star of my heart, Will dazzle even thy lover Who knows how fair thou art!

Oh, Life, I have taken you for My Lover

Oh, Life, I have taken you for My Lover!

(To Arthur E. J. Legge, who suggested this idea)

Oh, Life, I have taken you for my Lover, I rent your veils and I found you fair; If a fault or failing my eyes discover, I will not see it; it is not there!

I know, if I knew, I should hold you dearer, Should understand, if I understood, For I worship more, as you draw me nearer, Your reckless Evil, your perfect Good.

In the Jungle gloom, we have watched and waited, For stealthy Panthers, that prowl by night, At the end of some weary march, belated, We heard strange tales by the camp-fire light.

We have lain on the starlit sands, untented, While low-hung planets rose white and fair, And in moonlit gardens, silver and scented, Oh, Life, my Lover, how sweet you were!

Forbidden and barbarous rites were shown us, In rock-hewn Temples and jungle caves, And the smoke-wreathed home of the dead has known us,— The burning-ghat by the Ganges waves

Ah, the long, lone ride through the starlit hours, The long, lone watch on the starlit sea, And the flame and flush of the morning flowers When Life, my Lover, was kind to me!

Betimes we were out on the Sea, together; The vessel raced down the great green slope Of mountainous waves, in desperate weather; The hearts of men were adrift from hope.

As over the deck, in exultant fashion, The violent water crashed and fell, I knew, through the joy of your reckless passion, Agonised fear of the last farewell.

But I follow you always, unresisting, To lowest depth; to uttermost brink, From a thirst like mine there is no desisting Though given poison for wine to drink.

You may do your utmost, you will not shake me, Your faith may falter; my faith is true. Oh, Life, you may shatter and rend and break me, All Pain is Pleasure, that springs from you!

In the height and heat of your wildest passion, You had your uttermost will of me, And when have I asked for the least compassion? A lover loved is a lover free!

Though, with never a word of farewell spoken In lonely wilds of some Desert place, You have flung me from you, adrift and broken To wait the child of your last embrace.

And never my faith nor my fervour faltered, Until you turned to my lips again, When, my eager longing for you unaltered Your first kiss cancelled my months of pain.

Ah, Life, you may torture my soul, betray me, The right is yours, as Lover and Lord. And when in the climax of all, you slay me, My lips in dying will seek your sword.

Illusion

Illusion

Thinking you had a heart that love could break, A lovely gentle soul that might awake, I held you tenderly for either's sake, And showed you nothing but love's ecstasy.

Now, though you have no heart to melt or burn, No soul to wonder, meditate or yearn, Your beauty is a fact; lie still and learn Something of passionate love's intensity.

Sleep

Sleep

(The Moorish Slave, at Fidala, Morocco)

There is something so beseeching in the attitude of sleep, A pathetic resignation, most appealing to the heart. There must surely be some secret that the eyes in slumber keep, Which the lips, on their awakening, could not, if they would, impart.

See yon Slave from Sus, recumbent, with his ebon arms outspread On the marigolds he crushes to a sheet of golden flowers, How the mystery of dreaming lends a halo to his head, And exalts him to a level never reached in waking hours.

In the form that lies impassive, while the sea-wind comes and goes And uplifts his rags in pity, on its cool refreshing breath, There is something so prophetic of the Last and Great Repose: Sleep has borrowed, in its quietude, the Dignity of Death.

Though his parted lips are wordless, though he breathes no uttered prayer Yet his silence seems imploring "Let me deem the noonday night, For my dreams are velvet-breasted, and they shelter me from care, I entreat thee not to wake me to the sorrows of the light."

Ah, sleep on, in peace, my brother, to awaken when thou wilt, From the dreams that treat thee kindly, and the rest that sets thee free. With the wild fig for thy canopy, the marigolds thy quilt, And, to serve thee for a lullaby, the thunder of the Sea.

Song of the Enfifa River

Song of the Enfifa River

(In Memory of Abdullah, drowned at sixteen, on the road to Rabat, Morocco)

At day-break, when the tide was low He came to bathe his slender feet, And laughing, sported to and fro, Across my waters cool and sweet.

Obedient to his Faith's decree His sable hair was shorn away, One curl was left, that floating free, I longed to deck with silver spray.

His eyes were wide and full of light, Young eyes, where dreams and fancies glow. There was no star in Heaven so bright, And I reflect the stars, and know.

He gave himself to my embrace, Ah, Youth, confiding and unwise! My kisses clustered on his face How should I render up my prize?

Yet he withdrew; my waves were weak. He loitered on my banks awhile, Shook my caresses from his cheek, And left me with a careless smile.

I let him leave; my tides were low. But, seeking succour of the Sea At noon I felt the breakers flow Across the bar, and join with me.

I waited in the heat; at length Again he came to bathe alone, Then, in the fulness of my strength, I caught and held him for my own!

His strong young arms apart he flung, His red lips cried, I had no care. In eddies round his limbs I clung, And rippled in and out his hair.

I bore him downwards to the Sea, The white surf met us on the sand, His beauty was made one with me Who saw and loved it on the land.

I laid him down upon the bar, Played with his hair, and kissed his eyes. How cold these mortal lovers are! He sleeps and makes me no replies.

My tides run low; he will not wake, His hand drifts, like an empty shell. I stole him for his beauty's sake, Alas, Enfifa did not well!

His young lips show no stir of breath. Ah,—I begin to understand, And I remember:—this is Death! The haunting terror of the land.

The River of Pearls at Fez: Translation

The River of Pearls at Fez: Translation

One evening we sat together By the river of Pearls at Fez, Stringing verses and sometimes singing. My gaze followed the beautiful boy Who, with a swift and delicate movement, Flung the wine-cup over his shoulder; The ruby drops glittered and fell Bright in the dying sunshine. The River of Pearls shone like a sword in the grass, Not disdaining The work of turning the waterwheel, And the sun, reluctant, lingered about the tree-tops In a golden mist of farewell.

Many the tears that have fallen since, Many the nights that have passed, But I remember The River of Pearls at Fez And Seomar whom I loved.

Syed Amir

Syed Amir

Syed amir is dead, and his numerous foes Are hushed in a breathless awe of amazed relief. The hearts of his friends are cold as the Tirah snows, And I am blind and deaf in the Grip of my Grief. My Soul has borrowed a portion of Pain from Hell. Oh, Syed Amir, my Brother and Friend, Farewell!

His women weep, but a woman's tears flow lightly. A bauble or two, or a child, can soon console. But I, who am strange to tears, lie sleepless, nightly, Feeling the Fangs of Grief in my desolate soul. I maddened myself with Churus, it could not cure me— Ransacked the Bazar, to beg at the hands of lust An hour's respite, but how was sin to allure me, Who know the beauty of Syed Amir is dust?

A little while I wander in Tribulation, In a Feud or two, or a few light loves take part, But Death will come, and this is my Consolation, Men live not long with a stricken and wounded heart. What further challenge from Fate can I hope or fear, Who mourn the ruined glory of Syed Amir?

All gifts were Syed Amir's; an Arrestive Beauty That caught men's breath when he passed, Serene and Royal, A clear and delicate Mind, where Honour and Duty, Sentried the gate, that nothing might pass disloyal, And these are taken from Khorassan for ever, Their light is quenched in the land where he used to dwell, But I, who loved him, cease from loving him never, Oh, Syed Amir, my Brother and Friend, Farewell!

Au Salon

Au Salon

A sky intensely blue, a low, white wall Against it heaps of up-blown yellow sand, A sleeping figure, holding in her hand Some scarlet cactus blossom; that was all. And yet so mellowly the sunbeams fell Upon the sunburnt limbs, such subtle play Of rosy light and tender shadow lay Upon the upturned face, that all could tell An artist painted with a poet's eyes; And warmly an enthusiastic glow Ran through the groups that criticised below While one, who gazed with pleasure and surprise Said, and I do not think he said amiss, "He was her lover when he painted this!"

The Lute Player of Casa Blanca

The Lute Player of Casa Blanca

No others sing as you have sung Oh, Well Beloved of me! So glad you are, so lithe and young, As joyous as the sea, That dances in the golden rain The falling sunbeams fling,— Ah, stoop and kiss me once again Then take your lute and sing. Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, Take up your lute and sing!

The wind comes blowing, light and free: In all the summer isles No laughing thing it found to see As brilliant as your smiles. You are the very heart of Youth, The very Soul of Song, That lovely dream, made living truth, For which the poets long. Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, The very Soul of Song!

Ah, dear and dark-eyed Lute player This joy is almost pain, To reach, when evening cools the air, Your level roof again. To see the palms, erect and slim, Against a golden sky, And hear, as twilight closes dim, The Mouddin's mournful cry, Across your songs, my Lute player, The Faithful's evening cry.

Each slender finger lightly slips, To its appointed strings, Ah, the sweet scarlet, parted lips Of One Beloved, who sings! Ah, the soft radiance of eyes By love and music lit! What need of Heaven beyond the skies Since here we enter it? You make my Heaven, my Lute player, And hold the keys of it!

And when the music waxes strong I hear the sound of War, The drums are throbbing in the song, The clamour and the roar. The Desert's self is in the strain, The agony of slaves, The winds that sigh, as if in pain, About forgotten graves, Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, Those lonely Desert graves!

The sightless sockets, whence the eyes, Were wrenched or burnt away, The mangled form that e'er it dies, Becomes the jackals' prey, The forced caress, the purchased smile, Ere youth be yet awake,— Ah, break your melody awhile Or else my heart will break! I sometimes think, my Lute player, You wish my heart to break!

The sunset fires desert the West, The stars invade the sky, Lover of mine, 'tis time to rest And let the music die. Though Melody awake the morn, Yet Love should end the day. I kiss your hand the strings have worn And take your lute away. I kiss your hand, my Lute player, And take the Lute away.

At twilight on this roof of ours, So lonely and so high, We catch the scent of all the flowers Ascending to the sky. Sultan of Song, whose burning eyes Outblaze the stars above, Forget not, when the sunset dies You reign as Lord of Love! Ah, come to me, my Lute player, Lover, and Lord of Love!

The Hospital on the Shore

The Hospital on the Shore

The youthful swimmers come up on the beach, Naked and fresh from the kiss of the sea, I hear the sound of their light-hearted speech As it is with them, it was once with me! Oh, Death, grant me pity: just one day more, And let me go down again to the shore.

I could have died in the rush of the air, Mid crashing water and petulant spray, The surf in my teeth, the wind in my hair, Rejoicing, exultant, even as they. But to meet Death here, … in this walled-in cage, I am dumb with terror and blind with rage.

Have pity! Reprieve me! just one more ride, White sand beneath us, white planets above, One last long sail with the ebb of the tide, One lilac evening of delicate love. One lingering look at those eyes of his. To remember through the Eternities.

Among the Sandhills

Among the Sandhills

Lie still, Beloved, I also see the day Shoot his white arrows through the trembling sky, But what is dawn to us, who cast away All sense of time that mars our ecstasy?

The scented orange bushes check the breeze Granting in tribute many waxen stars, And aromatic Eucalyptus trees Defy the sun with grey-green scimitars.

Since fate has given us this garden love, And Time and Space, for once, have acquiesced, Ah, take no heed of paling skies above Let us deem night is with us yet, and rest.

Let us lie still and drift away in dreams, Back to the jewelled kingdom of the night, Whose golden stars with dimly radiant gleams Lit up your loveliness for my delight.

Once we are risen all the cares of day Will seize and bind us to their wanton will. Why should we own that night has passed away? Oh, as you value love, lie still, lie still!

The Cactus

The Cactus

The scarlet flower, with never a sister leaf, Stemless, springs from the edge of the Cactus-thorn: Thus from the ragged wounds of desperate grief A beautiful Thought, perfect and pure, is born.

Lalla Radha and the Churel

Lalla Radha and the Churel

His sixteen years had left him very fair, Tinted his cheeks with soft and delicate bloom, Added new lustre to his clustered hair, And filled his amber eyes with tender gloom.

He sought some unknown thing, he knew not what, His scarce-seen bride, a child, was far away, Desiring love, as yet he knew it not, Sleepless by night he grew, forlorn by day.

Priest

"Ah, go not near the Peepul trees, That shiver in the evening breeze, A young Churel might hide in these!

"And should she see thee, and desire, Then will she burn thee in soft fire, Till in her arms thou shalt expire!"

Lalla Radha

"But who and what is this Churel, Who loves in Peepul trees to dwell,

The Peepul, where the Koel sings In frenzied songs, of amorous things?"

Priest

"When, with her child unborn, a woman dies, Her spirit takes the form of a Churel, A maiden's form, with soft, alluring eyes, Where promises of future rapture dwell. Yet is her loveliness, though passing sweet, Marred by the backward-turning of her feet.

"She sits in branches of the Peepul trees, Until beneath, a passing youth she sees. Should she desire him, swift, she will alight, Entreating softly 'Stay with me to-night!' No safety then for him; unless he flies, Soon, in the furnace of her love, he dies!"

Lalla Radha

"But if indeed these things are so, Yet what am I, that she should care, To watch me as I pass below, Or notice me and find me fair?"

Priest

"Yours are the happiest gifts that the Gods have given, Who have never been over ready with gifts to part. Youth, the divine reminiscence of some lost Heaven, Beauty, the dream of the eyes, the desire of the heart.

"Beauty, that women adore and secretly pray for, To find, to possess, to bequeath to the world again, The loveliest stake that Life allows them to play for, At the risk of death; with certain foreknowledge of pain."

Dancing Girl (singing in the distance)

"What will you do with your seventeenth year, You with the eyes of a dove? Give it to Love, he will hold you lightly, Betray you and wound you more than slightly, But lead you into Paradise nightly, Give it to Love!!"

He heard and waited awhile, but the days flew by, And brought a more brilliant sun to the azure sky.

The scent of the flowers grew stronger, grew keen as pain, And Youth's sweet ferment rose from his heart to his brain

Until, when the west was red, and the evening breeze Broke fresh on his lips, he went to the Peepul trees.

Song of the Churel

"Ah, come to me, I want you so! Why will you make me wait? The golden sunsets burn and glow, The twilight moments come and go, I watch you wander to and fro, Why do you hesitate?

"So very brief Youth's season is, Ah, wherefore waste a single night? Put up your lips for mine to kiss, Take the first promise of delight.

"Upon Life's pale and tragic face, Youth passes like a blush. It blooms, an evanescent grace, Alas, for such a little space, And fading, hardly leaves a trace, Of all its radiant flush.

"We cannot force one night to last, Or stay a single star at will, And though the Pulse of Youth is fast, The Wings of Time are swifter still.

"So much I want your silken hair, Your youth, intact and free, A thousand nights, serenely fair, With scented silence everywhere, Consenting stars and pliant air, Would pass too soon for me.

"Too soon the rising flood of morn Our isle of night would overflow, And force upon our eyes forlorn Its lovely but unwanted glow.

"The magic Garden of Delight Is ours; I hold the key. Take up Love's sceptre, yours by right And learn his mystery and might, Ah, come and reign with me to-night, In silent ecstasy!

"Come, while the silver stars above Rain down their light serene and still, And if you cannot come for love, Ah, come on any terms you will!"

How should the youth resist, deny, Or turn his lips from hers away? Nightly, beneath th' unheeding sky, The fierce Churel caressed her prey.

Nightly, the flickering Peepul trees, Echoed his soft and broken sighs, While the faint eddies of the breeze In pity fanned his sleepless eyes.

Frailer he grew, more wan and pale, Possession only fed Desire, Like wax he felt his forces fail Consumed in her insistent fire.

Till lost in dreams, his fainting breath Shed on her lips in one last sigh, He neither knew nor noticed death. This is the loveliest way to die!

Beneath the Peepuls dead he lay, Pale on his face the starlight fell, In ecstasy he passed away. Such is the love of the Churel.

Rabat: Morocco

Rabat: Morocco

Oh, walled, white City, rising from the plain, Between the grey-green grass, the grey-blue skies, How we have longed for you, and watched in vain Till your pale beauty rose upon our eyes.

From Orange groves, beyond your gated walls, Faint scents of Citron bloom float far away. Upon each wind-worn face the perfume falls Till we forget the journey of the day.

Forget the weary march, its dust and heat, The frequent carrion that taints the air, The three-inch spur, the lame and stumbling feet, The pointed stirrup, clogged with blood and hair.

Forget the wretched brute, that strains and strives, Staggers a few more paces with his load Then falls and dies, beneath the open knives, The kicks and curses of the savage road.

Let us forget (in such forgetfulness Lies the one chance, perhaps, of life at all!) While our burnt lips receive the soft caress Exhaled from Orange flowers beyond the wall.

Ah, sea-set City, grant my heart's request! Where your slim minarets soar white above Your fragrant Orange gardens, grant me rest, And from some child of yours, a little love. Ah, walled, white City, grant me a little love!

Gathered from Ternina's face

Gathered from Ternina's face

(To N. L. K. in memory of June 23rd)

Tristan, Oh, Tristan! Death has set us free! There is no barrier now, 'twixt me and thee, For Fate allows my lips their "Come to me"!!

Tristan!

We, from this night, no more of night shall know; For us, no paling stars, no dawning glow; Ah, I am more than glad to have it so,

Tristan!

I feared the poison, now I feel it thrill Through all my veins like liquid fire, and still It brings no pain, nor any sense of ill,

Tristan!

Only a tender, strange desire for thee, While the winged moments perish silently. Ah, come, lest Death forestall thee, come to me,

Tristan!

Most gracious Death, who sets me free to speak; He strengthens me, who makes all others weak, Brings blushes and no pallor to my cheek,

Tristan!

Listen; I say the words I could not say Had we to rise and meet another day, But in the falling shades of Death, I may!

Tristan!

There will be no to-morrow; I shall keep Tristan for ever in my arms asleep. Not even dreams will share a rest so deep,

Tristan!

My face will be the last face thou shalt see. Thy spirit, entering on Eternity, Will pause to take an ultimate kiss from me,

Tristan!

Ah, come to me, since Death has given the right. I love thee so, I could have died to-night Without the poison's aid, from sheer delight,

Tristan!

Much may be done by those about to die, Much may be said by lips that say "Good-bye," On which the Last Great Silence soon must lie,

Tristan!

With Death to shelter me, I greatly dare, My lips seek things mine eyes have long found fair, This is thy mouth,—and this, thy falling hair,

Tristan!

Thy falling hair,—so soft upon my brow, Never a lover has been loved as thou! If this is Death, I have not lived till now!

Tristan!

Opium: Li's riverside hut at Taku

Opium: Li's riverside hut at Taku

The room is bare, the paper windows shiver, Beneath the ill-hung door, the sleet blows free, Yet here, Delight flows forth, a gentle river, To saturate my soul with ecstasy!

I lie upon the heated Kang, quiescent, Lulled by the warmth of lighted straw below, While Li, the golden-tinted adolescent, Blue-clad and silent, passes to and fro.

Li, with his well-cut lips and supple fingers, His crudely lidded eyes, that seem to gaze Back through ten thousand years of thought, where lingers Some misty splendour of the old, old days.

Free from the plait, his loosened sable tresses In silken waves, below the knee, descend. Bringing the opium pipe, he deftly presses The viscous drug upon the needle's end.

Lights it, inserts it in the pipe beside me, Then through my lips the magic vapour streams, And Life and Love, that seldom satisfied me, Meet me with lovely faces in my dreams.

Life at his brightest, flushed and crowned with flowers, Brings gifts no mortal, waking, e'er possessed, Exquisite Chances, and Enchanted Hours, While Love,—Love brings me you, to share my rest!

In the Water Palace

In the Water Palace

The gracious rain caressed the fields To bountiful increase, Profusion reigned throughout the land, And, on the borders, peace.

Yet, in the streets, the people cried "It is a shameful thing, Now all the Gods are more than kind, This madness of the King."

A gipsy-girl his heart ensnares, And all his days and nights Are spent, unmindful of the State, In profitless delights.

The Maharani sits alone, Her lashes wet with tears, While all the pearls and gems of state Her gipsy rival wears.

In vain they bring her silken robes, In vain her maidens sing, She will but sigh, "When shall I see The beauty of the king?"

The gipsy's youth is all but o'er, Her time for children past, The people say, "Without a son How shall the kingdom last?"

And louder yet the murmurs grow Of folly and disgrace, And faster still the Rani's tears Flow down her youthful face.

One night, a faithful handmaiden Unto her chamber came; "Presence," she said, "'tis thou alone Canst save the king from shame.

"The gipsy girl we drugged to-night And stole her silks away, Rise thou, and play the wanton's part Until the dawn of day.

"We gave a philtre to the king To set his brain afire, And thou shalt take the gipsy's place To solace his desire.

"Thus lying joyous on thy heart, If all propitious be, He, thinking of the gipsy's charms, Shall bring a son to thee.

"If this, Oh, Rani, thou canst do Thy virtue will be great; Thou from himself wilt save the king, And from the king the state.

"But ah, remember, he must go Before the skies grow light, Ere yet the philtre leave his brain Too clear in sense and sight.

"For should he dream that thou art thou, And realise the truth Too suddenly, he would not spare Thy beauty or thy youth.

"In some auspicious, later hour, If our desire be gained, The tender sequence of the fraud To him can be explained."

The Maharani rose and smiled, She pushed her hair away, "Ah, if he stay with me to-night, At daybreak let him slay!"

Then round her slender neck she twined The pearls as white as milk; Her breast was all too young to fill The crimson bodice silk.

She blushed to wear the gipsy's robes, And yet they seemed to bring A subtle sweetness to her soul, Since well they knew the king.

And "Ah," she said, "I love him so, I tremble with delight; Would that I knew the gipsy's spell To charm him through the night!"

Then to her rival's bower she went, (Who far, unconscious, lay,) And waited in a flush of joy Till he should pass that way.

He came in all his jewelled state, His dagger by his side, The philtre filled him with desire Fierce to be satisfied.

His youth and beauty changed her love To passion at its best, And round his neck she wound her arms And took him to her breast.

She was so sweet, she loved so well, Before the night was past, He murmured, "Ah, my gipsy queen, Thou lovest me at last!"

The watchful woman by the door Waited in hope and fear, Praying the Gods that all go well For her she held so dear.

And when the night had somewhat waned, And sleep had closed his eyes, "Presence," she said, "Unclasp thine arms And bid thy lover rise."

The little Rani held him close And smiling answered low, "My lover is so sweet to me I cannot let him go."

And once again she came to warn; The Rani begged reprieve, "Love is so sweet and new to me How can I let him leave?"

A third time came the handmaiden, Sleep weighted both their eyes, The Rani sighed, "I love him so, I cannot bid him rise!"

Thus all three slept until the dawn Rose tremulous and clear, And soon the sunlight through the room Pierced like a golden spear.

It struck the king across the eyes, He rose alert and keen, He saw the pearls he knew so well, But not his gipsy queen.

The Rani waking, held him still, He tore her arms apart. "This for thy treachery," he cried, And stabbed her to the heart.

The Crucifix

The Crucifix

Oh, slender Christ, upon the Cross before me, Whose wistful eyes are sad and shaped for tears, What have we done, of all that you commanded? Little enough! these last two thousand years.

Should any soul be touched with grace or glory, Surely such gifts are their possessor's loss: Hemlock to Socrates, the stake for Bruno, And, to your young Divinity, the Cross.

That Cross, on which you hung, serene and dying, Until the last, to your own tenets true, Praying amid your long drawn torments, "Father Forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Forgive, forgive us, for our senseless folly, After these weary centuries, who can? We, who relinquished priceless consolation, That else those tender lips had left for Man.