Weariness the tune of this evening melody,
Pain the lute to which I sing;
Ah! goddess, why this gray measure
In thy starry harmony?
The white conch[4] of the half-moon
Silent as though all worship's ceased,
No incense-perfume from the forest censer
The breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon.
I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea,
The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep;
Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand,
Weariness the tune of this evening melody.
[Footnote 4: In a Hindu temple conch shells are blown during or at the
close of a worship.]
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A call, not a song;
A command, not a prayer;
No mellowing moonlight, but dawn,
Frail, fanciful, and fair
In the east of my dream and desire.
At the portal of unending desire,
Draped in diaphanous dreams,
With a whispered word of fire
That quivers and gleams
Through the clouds of my longing.
Longings poignant with pains and tears
Enfold, and fill my soul
That aches with hopes and fears
As thy chariot wheels' roll
Sets fire with torches of gold
To my words, my silences, my singing,
And to this black pyre of my life
To take my being on the wings of thy embracing
To sail away, far away from man's hate and strife
Where only love reigns on its throne of unending light.
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