English

Happie to be, trulye is in some schoole-
Maistere's booke, be either king or foole.
How happie then are they, if such men bee,
Whom both great fooles and kinges the world doth see.

Behold me — a shadow!
The shadow of an ancient laughing thing!

Fallen columns disintegrated with time;
Sacred mounds insulted with the growth of scornful weeds;
Shattered arches haunted by the lizard and the snake:
This is my Babylon — the Babylon I built and feasted in!

O, but the wantonness of my Babylon!
The princely prodigality of my Babylon!
This was the throne — I sat upon it.
I sat upon it and feasted mine ears with the haughty trumpets,
Mine eyes with the scarlet and purple.

Long aeons since, in leafy woodlands sweet,
Diana, weary with the eager chase,
Was wont to seek full oft some trysting-place
Loved of her rosy train; some cool retreat
Of crystal springs, deep-bowered from the heat
Of sultry noon, wherein each subtle grace
Of snowy form and radiant flower-face,
Narcissus-like, goddess and nymph might greet.
Diana long hath fleeted 'yond the main;
The founts which erst she loved are all bereft;
No more 'mid violet-banks her feet are set;
Silent her silvern bugle, fled her train;

Listen! All the world is still;
One bleared hour and night is gone.
See the lonely moon-washed hill
Lift its head to catch the dawn!

In the east the eager light
Sets the curtained dusk a-sag;
And all the royal robe of Night
Frays cheaply — like a rag!

Once I felt a lifting joy
When I saw the day unfurl,
Watching, just a laughing boy,
For the Morning Girl.

Oft I met her in the dew
Face to face, her sapphire eyes
Burning on me through the blue
Of the morning skies.

Many are they that I remember,
Who have come and passed like wind;
Still others come and pass on,
There are none that stay behind:
Wonderful indeed is this workshop
Which the great Artist has produced.
Look thou well upon that bubble,
What its lasting and its stay.
Thus art thou, didst thou but know it,
In the dust thy pattern see.
Naught dost thou know of thyself;
Ah! how sad the thought to me!
What art thou concerned about?
Be thou just as glad thereafter.
What troubles hast thou seen, Khush-hal?

Unbind your hair, and let its masses be
Soft midnight on the weary eyes of me.
I faint before the dazzle of your breast;
Make shadow with your hair that I may rest,
And I will cool my fevered temples there:
Let down your hair.

Ah — so! It falls like night upon a day
Too bright for peace. It is a cruel way
That leads to this, alas, which is but pain.
I am athirst — your tresses fall like rain;
Ah, wrap me close and bind me captive there
Amid your hair!

How much my soul has given that my flesh

Can this be sin?
This ecstasy of arms and eyes and lips,
This thrilling of caressing finger-tips,
This toying with incomparable hair?
(I close my dazzled eyes, you are so fair!)
This answer of caress to fond caress,
This exquisite maternal tenderness?
How could so much of beauty enter in,
If this be sin?

Can it be wrong?
This cry of flesh to flesh, so like a song?
This fusing of two atoms with a kiss,
Hurled to the black and pitiless abyss?

Can it be crime

Art thou wearied in thy search
That from this life's hopes thou'rt parted?
Countless blessings round thee spread,
Ask but and thou shalt receive.
As thou seekest, thus thou findest!
Nay yet more shall be thy share.
Who would ere taste honey's sweetness
If the bee's sharp sting he feared?
Still more early seek the Healer
For thy cure from this world's wounds.
In no Faith is now my trust,
Though each Faith and Creed I know.
Wounded by each shaft I saw
By myself the bow was drawn.

My brain is weary with the whirling day!
Snatch me away!
Away from cold, sane living, quiet breath!

I have not seen the proof of human laws:
Only the warm vast Cause
Shall lead me to your arms, your lips, your breast!
Teach me to wrest
The sweetness out of living unto death!

I only know I draw a fevered breath,
I only know my eyes are fagged and dim—
Fill up my soul with beauty to the brim!

I am so weary, and your mouth is red—
Pillow my head!

The spacious cities hummed with toil:
The monarch reared his towers to the skies;
Men delved the fruitful soil
And studied to be wise;
Along the highway's rocky coil
The mailed legions rang;
Smiling unheeded 'mid the moil,
The Poet sang.

The glittering cities long are heaps:
The starry towers lie level with the plain;
The desert serpent sleeps
Where soared the marble fane;
The stealthy, bead-eyed lizard creeps
Where gleamed the tyrant's throne;
The grandeur dark oblivion steeps:
The song sings on.