Fruit-Gathering | Page 6

and come to my side--some shall
weep.
Some in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.
For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.
From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.
Now I stand before thee--help me to put on my armour!
Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life.
Let my heart beat in pain, the drum of thy victory.
My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.

XXXVI
When, mad in their mirth, they raised dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful,
it made my heart sick.
I cried to thee and said, "Take thy rod of punishment and judge them."
The morning light struck upon those eyes, red with the revel of night;
the place of the white lily greeted their burning breath; the stars through
the depth of the sacred dark stared at their carousing--at those that

raised dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful!
Thy judgment seat was in the flower garden, in the birds' notes in
springtime: in the shady river-banks, where the trees muttered in
answer to the muttering of the waves.
O my Lover, they were pitiless in their passion.
They prowled in the dark to snatch thy ornaments to deck their own
desires.
When they had struck thee and thou wert pained, it pierced me to the
quick, and I cried to thee and said, "Take thy sword, O my Lover, and
judge them!"
Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.
A mother's tears were shed on their insolence; the imperishable faith of
a lover hid their spears of rebellion in its own wounds.
Thy judgment was in the mute pain of sleepless love: in the blush of the
chaste: in the tears of the night of the desolate: in the pale
morning-light of forgiveness.
O Terrible, they in their reckless greed climbed thy gate at night,
breaking into thy storehouse to rob thee.
But the weight of their plunder grew immense, too heavy to carry or to
remove.
Thereupon I cried to thee and said, Forgive them, O Terrible!
Thy forgiveness burst in storms, throwing them down, scattering their
thefts in the dust.
Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-stone; in the shower of blood; in
the angry red of the sunset.

XXXVII
Upagupta, the disciple of Buddha, lay asleep on the dust by the city
wall of Mathura.
Lamps were all out, doors were all shut, and stars were all hidden by
the murky sky of August.
Whose feet were those tinkling with anklets, touching his breast of a
sudden?
He woke up startled, and the light from a woman's lamp struck his
forgiving eyes.
It was the dancing girl, starred with jewels, clouded with a pale-blue
mantle, drunk with the wine of her youth.

She lowered her lamp and saw the young face, austerely beautiful.
"Forgive me, young ascetic," said the woman; "graciously come to my
house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed for you."
The ascetic answered, "Woman, go on your way; when the time is ripe
I will come to you."
Suddenly the black night showed its teeth in a flash of lightning.
The storm growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled
in fear.
......
The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom.
Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.
The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.
From the mid-sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent
town.
The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the
lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless
plaint.
Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the
rampart.
What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with the
black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away
from the town?
The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened
her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.
"Who are you, merciful one?" asked the woman.
"The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here," replied the
young ascetic.

XXXVIII
This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.
Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of
storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting out
all stars from my sky.
Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep away my
harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from end to end.
This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love, never the
cold apathy of death.

XXXIX
The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts