They have carried my couch to the window
Up over the river high,
That a Great Mogul may have his wish
Ere he lay him down to die.
And the wish was ever this, and is,
Ere the last least shadows flee,
To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend
On the shrine that I raised for thee.
And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,
And I watched it slowly rise,
A vision of snow forever aglow
In the blue of the northern skies.
For I built it of purest marble,
That all the World might see
The depth of thy matchless beauty
And the light that ye were to me.
The silver Jumna broadens--
The day is growing dark,
And only the peacock’s calling
Comes over the rose-rimmed park.
And soon thy sunset marble
Will glow as the amethyst,
And moonlit skies shall make thee rise
A vision of pearly mist.
A vision of light and wonder
For the hordes in the covered wains,
From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth
To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.
From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,
Whence crystal rivers rise,
To the jungles where the tiger’s lair
Lies bare to the Deccan skies.
And the proud Mahratta chieftains
And the Afghan lords shall see
The tender gleam of thy living dream,
Through all Eternity.
The black is bending lower--
Ah wife--the day-star nears--
And I see you come with calling arms
As ye came in the yester-years.
And the joy is mine that ne’er was mine
By Palace and Peacock Throne--
By marble and gold where the World grows cold
In the seed that It has sown.
More bright than the Rajputana stars
Thine eyes shone out to me--
More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff
That lifts from the Southern Sea.
More fair thy hair than any silk
In Delhi’s proud bazaars--
More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start--
Blood-wet in a hundred wars.
More red thy lips than the Flaming Trees
That brighten the Punjab plains--
More soft thy tread than the winds that spread
The last of the summer rains.
No blush of the dawning heavens--
No rose by the garden wall,
May ever seek to match thy cheek--
Oh fairest rose of all.
Above the bending river
The midday sun is gone,
But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom
Where doubting shadows yawn.
And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloom
Through the march of the marching years,
Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground
It was wrought of a monarch’s tears.
The silver Jumna broadens
Like a moonlit summer sea,
But bank and bower and town and tower
Have bidden farewell to me:
And only the tall white minarets,
And the matchless dome shine through--
The silver Jumna broadens and--
It bears me--love--to you.