Last Poems | Page 8

a white man's feet,?I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur,
Musky, savage, and sweet.
Far it was from the huts of men
And the grass where Sambur feed;?I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree
That bled as a man might bleed.
Scent of fur and colour of blood:--
And the long dead instincts rose,?I followed the lure of my season's mate,--
And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes.
? * *
Pale days: and a league of laws
Made by the whims of men.?Would I were back with my furry cubs
In the dusk of a jungle den.
Middle-age
The sins of Youth are hardly sins,
So frank they are and free.?'T is but when Middle-age begins
We need morality.
Ah, pause and weigh this bitter truth:
That Middle-age, grown cold,?No comprehension has of Youth,
No pity for the Old.
Youth, with his half-divine mistakes,
She never can forgive,?So much she hates his charm which makes
Worth while the life we live.
She scorns Old Age, whose tolerance
And calm, well-balanced mind?(Knowing how crime is born of chance)
Can pardon all mankind.
Yet she, alas! has all the power
Of strength and place and gold,?Man's every act, through every hour,
Is by her laws controlled.
All things she grasps with sordid hands
And weighs in tarnished scales.?She neither feels, nor understands,
And yet her will prevails!
Cold-blooded vice and careful sin,
Gold-lust, blind selfishness,--?The shortest, cheapest way to win
Some, worse than cheap, success.
Such are her attributes and aims,
Yet meekly we obey,?While she to guide and order claims
All issues of the day.
You seek for honour, friendship, truth?
Let Middle-age be banned!?Go, for warm-hearted acts, to Youth;
To Age,--to understand!
The Jungle Flower
Ah, the cool silence of the shaded hours,?The scent and colour of the jungle flowers!
Thou art one of the jungle flowers, strange and fierce and fair,
Palest amber, perfect lines, and scented with champa flower. Lie back and frame thy face in the gloom of thy loosened hair;
Sweet thou art and loved--ay, loved--for an hour.
But thought flies far, ah, far, to another breast,
Whose whiteness breaks to the rose of a twin pink flower, Where wind the azure veins that my lips caressed
When Fate was gentle to me for a too-brief hour.
There is my spirit's home and my soul's abode,?The rest are only inns on the traveller's road.
From Behind the Lattice
I see your red-gold hair and know
How white the hidden skin must be,?Though sun-kissed face and fingers show?The fervour of the noon-day glow,
The keenness of the sea.
My longing fancies ebb and flow,
Still circling constant unto this;?My great desire (ah, whisper low)?To plant on thy forbidden snow
The rosebud of a kiss.
The scarlet flower would spread and grow,
Your whiteness change and flush,?Be still, my reckless heart, beat slow,?'T is but a dream that stirs thee so!)
To one transparent blush.
Wings
Was it worth while to forego our wings
To gain these dextrous hands ??Truly they fashion us wonderful things
As the fancy of man demands.
But--to fly! to sail through the lucid air
From crest to violet crest?Of these great grey mountains, quartz-veined and bare,
Where the white clouds gather and rest.
Even to flutter from flower to flower,--
To skim the tops of the trees,--?In the roseate light of a sun-setting hour
To drift on a sea-going breeze.
Ay, the hands have marvellous skill
To create us curious things,--?Baubles, playthings, weapons to kill,--
But--I would we had chosen wings!
Song of the Parao (Camping-ground)
Heart, my heart, thou hast found thy home!
From gloom and sorrow thou hast come forth,?Thou who wast foolish, and sought to roam
'Neath the cruel stars of the frozen North.
Thou hast returned to thy dear delights;
The golden glow of the quivering days,?The silver silence of tropical nights,
No more to wander in alien ways.
Here, each star is a well-loved friend;
To me and my heart at the journey's end.
These are my people, and this my land,
I hear the pulse of her secret soul.?This is the life that I understand,
Savage and simple and sane and whole.
Washed in the light of a clear fierce sun,--
Heart, my heart, the journey is done.
See! the painted piece of the skies,?Where the rose-hued opal of sunset lies.
Hear the passionate Koel calling?From coral trees, where the dusk is falling.
See my people, slight limbed and tall.
The maiden's bosom they scorn to cover:?The breasts that shall call and enthral her lover,
Things of beauty, are free to all.
Free to the eyes, that think no shame
That a girl should bloom like a forest flower.?Who hold that Love is a sacred flame,--
Outward beauty a God-like dower.
Who further regard it as no disgrace?If loveliness lessen to serve the race,?Nor point the finger of jesting scorn?At her who carries the child unborn.
Ah, my heart, but we wandered far