A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
when you came often drawn to the girl
loved as no other will be loved by you.
LAMP of my life, the lips of Death
Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath;
I go out in the grey evening
In the air the odor of flowers and the sounds of lamentation.
I stood and watched him playing,
A little lad of three,
be-KHudee le ga'ee kahaaN ham ko
der se intaZaar hai apnaa
Goodbye! the tears are in my eyes;
Farewell, farewell, my prettiest;
Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow,
Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven eons ago
Begin, my muse, the imitative lay,
Aonian doxies sound the thrumming string;
My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace
Still farther would I fly, my child,
To make thee safer yet,
Alone! Alone! No beacon, far or near!
No chart, no compass, and no anchor stay!
want you, yet I know that never
can I embrace you to my heart's content.
Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave.
I
A man is standing in the hall
His house not recognizing.
As I went down by Hastings Mill I lingered in my going To smell the smell of piled-up deals and feel the salt wind blowing,
Strange Power, I know not what thou art, Murderer or mistress of my heart.
Behind a trench in Flanders the sun was dropping low,
With tramp, and creak and jingle I heard the gun-teams go;
I saw it in the days gone by, When the dead girl lay at rest,
THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night
If it is madness…if it is the truth
So much horror below the skies!
Just from the sentry's tramp
(I must take it again at ten),
More than a hundred years ago
They raised for her this little stone;
Lady, Lady, I saw your face, Dark as night withholding a star . . .
And now the bell, -- the bell
She had so often heard by night and day
“Sway hard the whip, sailors!
Make them dance more!”
Still flowed the music, flowed the wine.
The youth in silence went;
My pony and I go to Songdo,
where Koryo reigned five hundred years.
Lover your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh As eastern summers are,
A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young, Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.
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