India's Love Lyrics

Editorial note: Laurence Hope was the pen name of Adela Florence Cory Nicolson. Born in 1865, she was educated in England. At age 16 she joined her father in India, where she spent most of her adult life. In 1889 she married Col. Malcolm H. Nicolson, a man twice her age. She committed suicide two months after his death in 1904.
Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel, Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword, Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord, Even less than these! Less than the weed, that grows beside thy door, Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee, Less than the need thou hast in life of me. Even less am I. Since I, O Lord, am nothing unto thee, See here thy Sword, I make it keen and bright, Love's last reward, Death, comes to me to-night, Farewell, Zahir-u-din.
Oh, that my blood were water, thou athirst, And thou and I in some far Desert land, How would I shed it gladly, if but first It touched thy lips, before it reached the sand. Once,—Ah, the Gods were good to me,—I threw Myself upon a poison snake, that crept Where my Beloved—a lesser love we knew Than this which now consumes me wholly—slept. But thou; Alas, what can I do for thee? By Fate, and thine own beauty, set above The need of all or any aid from me, Too high for service, as too far for love.
Song by Valgovind The fields are full of Poppies, and the skies are very blue, By the Temple in the coppice, I wait, Beloved, for you. The level land is sunny, and the errant air is gay, With scent of rose and honey; will you come to me to-day? From carven walls above me, smile lovers; many a pair. Oh, take this rose and love me! she has twined it in her hair. He advances, she retreating, pursues and holds her fast, The sculptor left them meeting, in a close embrace at last. Through centuries together, in the carven stone they lie, In the glow of golden weather, and endless azure sky. Oh, that we, who have for pleasure so short and scant a stay, Should waste our summer leisure; will you come to me to-day? The Temple bells are ringing, for the marriage month has come. I hear the women singing, and the throbbing of the drum. And when the song is failing, or the drums a moment mute, The weirdly wistful wailing of the melancholy flute. Little life has got to offer, and little man to lose, Since to-day Fate deigns to proffer, Oh wherefore, then, refuse To take this transient hour, in the dusky Temple gloom While the poppies are in flower, and the mangoe trees abloom. And if Fate remember later, and come to claim her due, What sorrow will be greater than the Joy I had with you? For to-day, lit by your laughter, between the crushing years, I will chance, in the hereafter, eternities of tears.