Part 7

"Radiant of feature and regal of mien, Seven handmaids meet for the Persian Queen."

. . . . .

Seven new moon tides at the Vesper call, King Feroz led to Queen Gulnaar's hall

A young queen eyed like the morning star: "I bring thee a rival, O Queen Gulnaar."

But still she gazed in her mirror and sighed: "O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

Seven queens shone round her ivory bed, Like seven soft gems on a silken thread,

Like seven fair lamps in a royal tower, Like seven bright petals of Beauty's flower

Queen Gulnaar sighed like a murmuring rose "Where is my rival, O King Feroz?"

III

When spring winds wakened the mountain floods, And kindled the flame of the tulip buds, When bees grew loud and the days grew long, And the peach groves thrilled to the oriole's song,

Queen Gulnaar sat on her ivory bed, Decking with jewels her exquisite head;

And still she gazed in her mirror and sighed: "O King, my heart is unsatisfied."

Queen Gulnaar's daughter two spring times old, In blue robes bordered with tassels of gold,

Ran to her knee like a wildwood fay, And plucked from her hand the mirror away.

Quickly she set on her own light curls Her mother's fillet with fringes of pearls;

Quickly she turned with a child's caprice And pressed on the mirror a swift, glad kiss.

Queen Gulnaar laughed like a tremulous rose: "Here is my rival, O King Feroz."

THE POET TO DEATH

Tarry a while, O Death, I cannot die While yet my sweet life burgeons with its spring; Fair is my youth, and rich the echoing boughs Where dhadikulas sing.

Tarry a while, O Death, I cannot die With all my blossoming hopes unharvested, My joys ungarnered, all my songs unsung, And all my tears unshed.

Tarry a while, till I am satisfied Of love and grief, of earth and altering sky; Till all my human hungers are fulfilled, O Death, I cannot die!

THE INDIAN GIPSY

In tattered robes that hoard a glittering trace Of bygone colours, broidered to the knee, Behold her, daughter of a wandering race, Tameless, with the bold falcon's agile grace, And the lithe tiger's sinuous majesty.

With frugal skill her simple wants she tends, She folds her tawny heifers and her sheep On lonely meadows when the daylight ends, Ere the quick night upon her flock descends Like a black panther from the caves of sleep.

Time's river winds in foaming centuries Its changing, swift, irrevocable course To far off and incalculable seas; She is twin-born with primal mysteries, And drinks of life at Time's forgotten source.

TO MY CHILDREN

Jaya Surya, aetat 4

Golden sun of victory, born In my life's unclouded morn, In my lambent sky of love, May your growing glory prove Sacred to your consecration, To my heart and to my nation. Sun of victory, may you be Sun of song and liberty.