The Englishman and Other Poems | Page 4

two have grown so fond,
(Oh, breathe no word of this),
When clouds hang low,?And east winds blow,?They meet and kiss and kiss:?(At night, I hear them kiss).
III
No man can understand the Sea, until?He knows all passions of the senses; all?The great emotions of the heart; and each
Exalted aspiration of the soul.?Then may he sit beside the sea and say:?'I, too, have flung myself against the rocks,?And kissed their flinty brows with no return;
And fallen spent upon unfeeling sands.?I, too, have gone forth yearning, to far shores,?Seeking that something which would bring content;
And finding only what I took away;?And I have looked up, through the veil of skies,?When all the world was still, and understood?That I am one with Nature and with God.'
IV
The Dawn was flying from the Night;
Swift as the wind she sped;?Her hair was like a fleece of light;
Her cheeks were warm and red.
All passion pale, the Night pursued;
She fled away, away;?And in her garments, rainbow hued,
She gained the peak of day.
And then, all shaken with alarms,
She leaped down from its crest;?Into the Sea's uplifted arms,
And swooned upon his breast.
ACQUAINTANCE
Not we who daily walk the City's street;?Not those who have been cradled in its heart,?Best understand its architectural art,?Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet?Some stranger who has stayed his passing feet?And lingered with us for a single hour,?And learned more of cathedral, and of tower,?Than we, who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear,?Not always those who dwell with us, know best?Our greater selves. Because they stand so near?They cannot see the lofty mountain crest,?The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and dear?Stands forth--revealed unto the some-time guest.
IN INDIA'S DREAMY LAND
In India's land one listens aghast?To the people who scream and bawl;?For each caste yells at a lower caste,?And the Britisher yells at them all.
RANGOON
Just a changing sea of colour?Surging up and flowing down;?And pagodas shining golden, night and noon;?And a sun-burst-tinted throng?Of young priests that move along?Under sun-burst-hued umbrellas through the town.
That's Rangoon.
THOUGHTS ON LEAVING JAPAN
A changing medley of insistent sounds,?Like broken airs, played on a Samisen,?Pursues me, as the waves blot out the shore.?The trot of wooden heels; the warning cry?Of patient runners; laughter and strange words?Of children, children, children everywhere:?The clap of reverent hands, before some shrine;?And over all the haunting temple bells,?Waking, in silent chambers of the soul,?Dim memories of long-forgotten lives.
But oh! the sorrow of the undertone;?The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn?From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.
Brave little people, of large aims, you bow?Too often, and too low before the Past;?You sit too long in worship of the dead.?Yet have you risen, open eyed, to greet?The great material Present. Now salute?The greater Future, blazing its bold trail?Through old traditions. Leave your dead to sleep?In quiet peace with God. Let your concern?Be with the living, and the yet unborn;?Bestow on them your thoughts, and waste no time?In costly honours to insensate dust.?Unlock the doors of usefulness, and lead?Your lovely daughters forth to larger fields,?Away from jungles of the ancient sin.
For oh! the sorrow of that undertone,?The wail of hopeless weeping in the dawn?From lips that smiled through gilded bars at night.
ON SEEING THE DIABUTSU--AT KAMAKURA, JAPAN
Long have I searched, cathedral shrine, and hall,?To find a symbol, from the hand of art,?That gave the full expression (not a part)?Of that ecstatic peace which follows all?Life's pain and passion. Strange it should befall?This outer emblem of the inner heart?Was waiting far beyond the great world's mart -?Immortal answer, to the mortal call.
Unknown the artist, vaguely known his creed:?But the bronze wonder of his work sufficed?To lift me to the heights his faith had trod.?For one rich moment, opulent indeed,?I walked with Krishna, Buddha, and the Christ,?And felt the full serenity of God.
THE LITTLE LADY OF THE BULLOCK CART
Now is the time when India is gay?With wedding parties; and the radiant throngs?Seem like a scattered rainbow taking part?In human pleasures. Dressed in bright array,?They fling upon the bride their wreaths of songs -?The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
Here is the temple ready for the rite:?The large-eyed bullocks halt; and waiting arms?Lift down the bride. All India's curious art?Speaks in the gems with which she is bedight.?And in the robes which hide her sweet alarms -?The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
This is her day of days: her splendid hour?When joy is hers, though love is all unknown.?It has not dawned upon her childish heart.?But human triumph, in a temporal power,?Has crowned her queen upon a one-day throne -?The Little Lady of the Bullock Cart.
Ah, Little Lady! What will be your fate??So long, so long, the outward-reaching years:?So brief the joy of this elusive part;?So frail the shoulders for the loads that wait:?So bitter salt the virgin widow's tears -?O Little Lady of the Bullock cart.
EAST AND WEST
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