The Gardener | Page 3

fear the
closed doors of the cage."
The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings
are powerless and dead."
7
O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door,--how can I attend to
my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me
what garment to put on. Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I
know well he will not glance up once at my window; I know he will
pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the vanishing
strain of the flute will come sobbing to me from afar.
But the young
Prince will pass by our door, and I will put on my best for the moment.
O mother, the young Prince did pass by our door, and the morning sun
flashed from his chariot.
I swept aside the veil from my face, I tore
the ruby chain from my neck and flung it in his path.
Why do you
look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he did not pick up my chain;
I know it was crushed under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the
dust, and no one knows what my gift was nor to whom.
But the
young Prince did pass by our door, and I flung the jewel from my
breast before his path.
8
When the lamp went out by my bed I woke up with the early birds. I sat
at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair. The young
traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the morning.
A pearl
chain was on his neck, and the sun's rays fell on his crown. He stopped
before my door and asked me with an eager cry, "Where is she?"
For
very shame I could not say, "She is I, young traveller, she is I."
It was dusk and the lamp was not lit.
I was listlessly braiding my hair.

The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the
setting
sun.
His horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his

garment.
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, "Where is
she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, weary traveller, she is
I."
It is an April night. The lamp is burning in my room.
The breeze of
the south comes gently. The noisy parrot sleeps in its cage.
My
bodice is of the colour of the peacock's throat, and my mantle is green
as young grass.
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the
deserted street. Through the dark night I keep humming, "She is I,
despairing traveller, she is I."
9
When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind
does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
It is
my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am
ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not
rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on
the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats
wildly--I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and
my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and
the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast
that shines and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.
10
Let your work be, bride. Listen, the guest has come.
Do you hear, he
is gently shaking the chain which fastens the door?
See that your
anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is not over-hurried at
meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the
evening.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. It is the full
moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the courtyard; the sky

overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry
the lamp to the door if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride,
do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when
you meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can
lower your eyes in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle when,
lamp in hand, you lead him in.
Have no word with him if you are shy.
Have you not finished your work yet, bride? Listen, the guest has come.

Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?
Have you not got ready
the offering basket for the evening
service?
Have you not put the
red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the