The Fugitive | Page 3

in careless joy they flit on, wound even the heart of the hollow wind with the tinkle of golden bells.
When you dance before the gods, flinging orbits of novel rhythm into space, Urvashi, the earth shivers, leaf and grass, and autumn fields heave and sway; the sea surges into a frenzy of rhyming waves; the stars drop into the sky--beads from the chain that leaps till it breaks on your breast; and the blood dances in men's hearts with sudden turmoil.
You are the first break on the crest of heaven's slumber, Urvashi, you thrill the air with unrest. The world bathes your limbs in her tears; with colour of her heart's blood are your feet red; lightly you poise on the wave-tossed lotus of desire, Urvashi; you play forever in that limitless mind wherein labours God's tumultuous dream.
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You, like a rivulet swift and sinuous, laugh and dance, and your steps sing as you trip along.
I, like a bank rugged and steep, stand speechless and stock-still and darkly gaze at you.
I, like a big, foolish storm, of a sudden come rushing on and try to rend my being and scatter it parcelled in a whirl of passion.
You, like the lightning's flash slender and keen, pierce the heart of the turbulent darkness, to disappear in a vivid streak of laughter.
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You desired my love and yet you did not love me.
Therefore my life clings to you like a chain of which clank and grip grow harsher the more you struggle to be free.
My despair has become your deadly companion, clutching at the faintest of your favours, trying to drag you away into the cavern of tears.
You have shattered my freedom, and with its wreck built your own prison.
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I am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look.
It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn, my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping.
Who says it is hard to forget?
The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own foolish persistence.
The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire falls to sleep on its bed of ashes.
You and I shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass and flowers that laugh in the sun.
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Of all days you have chosen this one to visit my garden.
But the storm passed over my roses last night and the grass is strewn with torn leaves.
I do not know what has brought you, now that the hedges are laid low and rills run in the walks; the prodigal wealth of spring is scattered and the scent and song of yesterday are wrecked.
Yet stay a while; let me find some remnant flowers, though I doubt if your skirt can be filled.
The time will be short, for the clouds thicken and here comes the rain again!
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I forgot myself for a moment, and I came.
But raise your eyes, and let me know if there still linger some shadow of other days, like a pale cloud on the horizon that has been robbed of its rain.
For a moment bear with me if I forget myself.
The roses are still in bud; they do not yet know how we neglect to gather flowers this summer.
The morning star has the same palpitating hush; the early light is enmeshed in the branches that overbrow your window, as in those other days.
That times are changed I forget for a little, and have come.
I forget if you ever shamed me by looking away when I bared my heart.
I only remember the words that stranded on the tremor of your lips; I remember in your dark eyes sweeping shadows of passion, like the wings of a home-seeking bird in the dusk.
I forget that you do not remember, and I come.
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The rain fell fast. The river rushed and hissed. It licked up and swallowed the island, while I waited alone on the lessening bank with my sheaves of corn in a heap.
From the shadows of the opposite shore the boat crosses with a woman at the helm.
I cry to her, "Come to my island coiled round with hungry water, and take away my year's harvest."
She comes, and takes all that I have to the last grain; I ask her to take me.
But she says, "No"--the boat is laden with my gift and no room is left for me.
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The evening beckons, and I would fain follow the travellers who sailed in the last ferry of the ebb-tide to cross the dark.
Some were for home, some for the farther shore, yet all have ventured to sail.
But I sit alone at the landing, having left my home and