Classic Poem

Beat on the tom-toms, and scatter the flowers,
—Jasmine, hibiscus, vermilion and white,
This is the day, and the Hour of Hours,
—Bring forth the Bride for her Lover's delight.
Maidens no more as a maiden shall claim her,
—Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire.
Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her?
—She is a flower, and love is a fire.

Give her the anklets, the ring, and the necklace,
—Darken her eyelids with delicate art,
Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless,
—By the Gods favored, oh, Bridegroom, thou art!
Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender,
—Circle together the Mystical Fire,
Bridegroom,—a whisper,—be gentle and tender,
—Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire.

Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover
—Beauty, till yesterday careless and wild;
Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover,
—Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child.
Center and Shrine of Mysterious Power,
—Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight,
Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour,
—Waiting the shade and the silence of night.

Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble,
—Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord,
Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble,
—Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword,
Thine is his valor, oh Bride, and his beauty,
—Thine to possess and re-issue again,
Such is thy tender and passionate duty,
—Licit thy pleasure and honored thy pain

Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender,
—Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife,
Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender,
—Brings thee the Honor and Burden of Life.
Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime,
—Worship thy Lover with fear and delight;
Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime,
—Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night?