Classic Poem

On a hill there blooms a palm
'Twixt Tigris and Euphrates old,
And among the leafy branches
Sits the phœnix, bird of gold.

Bird of gold, go forth and find me
Him whose bride I am to be:
Search and circle till thou find him,
Bind him, bring him, bird, to me.

If thou hast no thread of scarlet,
Give him greeting without end:
Tell him, golden bird, my spirit
Languishes towards my friend.

Tell him: Now the garden blossoms,
Closed except to his command;
Mid the leaves the golden apple
Waits and trembles for his hand.

Tell him, nightly on my pillow
Wakes the longing without name,
And the whiteness of my body
Burns my couch as with a flame.

If he comes not, hear my secret:
All prepared my coffer stands;
Linen, silk, and twenty singlets
Wrought and knitted by these hands.

And the softest of all feathers
By my mother plucked and stored:
Through the nights she filled the cushions
For her daughter's bridal hoard.

And the bridal veil of silver
Waits to deck me when I marry:
Bride and dowry, both are ready—
Wherefore does the bridegroom tarry?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Seethe and whisper, magic potion:
Thus the phœnix makes reply:
“In the night to thy beloved
With my secret will I fly.

“In his dreams I give thy greeting,
In his dreams reveal thy face:
Lo! Upon a broomstick mounted
Unto thee he flies apace.

“And he comes and speaks; ‘Behold me,
Oh, my joy, my hope, my pride:
Not with golden gifts or dowry,
But with love become my bride.

“‘Gold and silk I have aplenty—
Fire of youth and ringlets fine:
Both I give thee—swiftly, lightly,
Come to me, beloved mine.’”
. . . . . . . . . . .

When the night was dark above me
And the stars with clouds were stilled,
On his quest the phœnix vanished—
And his words are unfulfilled.

And at morn, at noon, at even,
Still I watch the clouds of fire:
“Clouds above me, answer, Wherefore
Comes he not, my heart's desire?”