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G.o.d hath swallowed his voice, or the sea hath drowned it, Or the Nile hath covered him with its flood; Else would he come when our voices call.
His word was honey in the prince's ear-- Will he return no more?
THE DESERT ROAD
In the sands I lived in a hut of palm, There was never a garden to see; There was never a path through the desert calm, Nor a way through its storms for me.
Tenant was I of a lone domain; The far pale caravans wound To the rim of the sky, and vanished again; My call in the waste was drowned.
The vultures came and hovered and fled; And once there stole to my door A white gazelle, but its eyes were dread With the hurt of the wounds it bore.
It pa.s.sed in the dusk with a foot of fear, And the white cold mists rolled in; And my heart was the heart of a stricken deer, Of a soul in the snare of sin.
My days they withered like rootless things, And the sands rolled on, rolled wide; Like a pelican I, with broken wings, Like a drifting barque on the tide.
But at last, in the light of a rose-red day, In the windless glow of the morn, From over the hills and from far away, You came-ah, the joy of the morn!
And wherever your footsteps fell there crept A path--it was fair and wide; A desert road which no sands have swept, Where never a hope has died.
I followed you forth, and your beauty held My heart like an ancient song, By that desert road to the blossoming plains I came, and the way was long.
So, I set my course by the light of your eyes; I care not what fate may send; On the road I tread s.h.i.+ne the love-starred skies, The road with never an end.
A SON OF THE NILE
Oh, the garden where to-day we, sow and to-morrow we reap; Oh, the sakkia turning by the garden walls; Oh, the onion-field and the date-tree growing, And my hand on the plough--by the blessing of G.o.d; Strength of my soul, O my brother, all's well!
A FAREWELL FROM THE HAREM
Take thou thy flight, O soul! Thou hast no more The gladness of the morning: ah, the perfumed roses My love laid on my bosom as I slept!
How did he wake me with his lips upon mine eyes, How did the singers carol, the singers of my soul, That nest among the thoughts of my beloved!
All silent now, the choruses are gone, The windows of my soul are closed; no more Mine eyes look gladly out to see my lover come.
There is no more to do, no more to say Take flight, my soul, my love returns no more!
AN ARAB LOVE SONG
The bed of my love I will sprinkle with attar of roses, The face of my love I will touch with the balm, With the balm of the tree from the farthermost wood, From the wood without end, in the world without end.
My love holds the cup to my lips, and I drink of the cup, And the attar of roses I sprinkle will soothe like the evening dew, And the balm will be healing and sleep, and the cup I will drink, I will drink of the cup my love holds to my lips.
THE CAMEL-DRIVER TO HIS CAMEL
Fleet is thy foot: thou shalt rest by the etl tree; Water shalt thou drink from the blue-deep well; Allah send his gard'ner with the green bersim, For thy comfort, fleet one, by the etl tree.
As the stars fly, have thy footsteps flown-- Deep is the well, drink, and be still once more; Till the pursuing winds, panting, have found thee And, defeated, sink still beside thee-- By the well and the etl tree.
THE TALL DAKOON
The Tall Dakoon, the bridle rein he shook, and called aloud, His Arab steed sprang down the mists which wrapped them like a shroud; But up there rang the clash of steel, the clanking silver chain, The war-cry of the Tall Dakoon, the moaning of the slain.
And long they fought--the Tall Dakoon, the children of the mist, But he was swift with lance and s.h.i.+eld, and supple of the wrist, Yet if he rose, or if he fell, no man hath proof to show-- And wide the world beyond the mists, and deep the vales below!
For when a man, because of love, hath wrecked and burned his s.h.i.+ps, And when a man for hate of love hath curses on his lips, Though he should be the peasant born, or be the Tall Dakoon, What matters then, of hap, or place, the mist comes none too soon!
THERE IS SORROW ON THE SEA
Our s.h.i.+p is a beautiful lady, Friendly and ready and fine; She runs her race with the storm in her face, Like a sea-bird over the brine.
In her household work no hand does s.h.i.+rk,-- No need of belaying-pins,-- And the captain dear and the engineer, They both look after the Twins:
