Broken and bruised by the hand of Fate,
Dark night, my staff,
Leaning on its shadowy strength I walk
Toward thee, my God.
Thy crescent my e'er-present friend;
Thy wind, thy voice,
Calls me to go on without end
To thy star that my soul hath seen.
The hour is black, my road unbuilt;
My beggar's song
I cannot sing; yet, thou knowest,
For thy love I long!
I come, O Lord! broken and battered
To thy world where sorrow is not.
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Kiss, my love, kiss
My burning, breaking being;
So when cold death
Will put out the light
In some wilderness
Of far forsaken life
Might each kiss blossom
Into a lotus and a Shephali.[2]
And in the desolate hours
Of loneliness of traveling
In the dusk of despair
One petal of these
Will cheer the vagrant souls
That tread the pathway
Of love's forsaking.
Or, when Death will sow
This Soul of mine
On the lake-shore of sorrow,
Like a weeping willow I will spring,
And with my green tresses
And bending body
Shall shelter secrecy-seeking lovers
That love for an hour,
As our twin hearts today.
Kiss then, with kisses of flame;
Touch me with rosy caresses;
Bury this, my hope, my dream,
And thy all-conquering love of me;
So the kiss-flowers may each be a dream!
May my willow be the vision of Eternal Spring.
[Footnote 2: Flowers full of perfume, abounding in Lower Bengal,
India.]
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