Indias Love Lyrics | Page 5

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!
To the Unattainable:
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.

Mahomed Akram's Appeal to the Stars
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.
Reminiscence of Mahomed Akram
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.
Story by Lalla-ji, the Priest
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