Thou art late, O Moon,
Late,
I have waited thee long.
The nightingale's flown to her nest,
Sated with song.
The champak hath no odour more
To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—
But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love,
Late,
For the moon is a-wane.
The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,
Burns with my pain.
The lotus leans her head on the stream—
Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,
Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death,
Late,
For he did not come!
A pariah is my heart,
Cast from him—dumb!
I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—
Is it not time for Nirvana's sleep?
O Death, strike with thy dart!
[FROM ONE BLIND]
I cannot say thy cheek is like the rose,
Thy hair ripple of sunbeams, and thine eyes
Violets, April-rich and sprung of God.
My barren gaze can never know what throes
Such boons of beauty waken, tho' I rise
Each day a-tremble with the ruthless hope
That light will pierce my useless lids—then grope
Till night, blind as the worm within his clod.
Yet unto me thou are not less divine,
I touch thy cheek—and know the mystery hid
Within the twilight breeze; I smoothe thy hair
And understand how slipping hours may twine
Themselves into eternity: yea, rid
Of all but love, I kiss thine eyes and seem
To see all beauty God Himself may dream.
Why then should I o'ermuch for earth-sight care?