[ourproject-public] ds as he scrutinized the

Fri Apr 9 22:25:18 CEST 2010

, This interlude of farcial joy and woe, Back to our native,

kind oblivion. Can this be Moti, she who prates of being, And life, and
death, and fallacy, and moan? Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast?
seeing All things about me shift, I need must change; Things which I
thought were plain are waxen strange, Things are unfathomable which I
deemed Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave,

Sunbeams are mysteries, and Love that seemed All winged joy, and
transport light as air,

Ah me, but Love is deeper than the grave, Is deeper than the grave; I
seek it there. Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die! And he is
doomed to die who loved me! O bitter, bitter end of tenderness! O
doleful issue of my happiness! Weep, little maid, for one that loved me!
O might I with my last of mortal breath Bid him the cruel treachery to
flee, And hear his voice and sink to happy death, So still might live
the one that loved me! Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper

low, As moon to weeping clouds, until there
rise Like pallid rainbow,
wan with spectral glow, A thing of fearful
joy athwart
my skies, A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be,
That I should die for him who loved me. I waste no life, no blame shall
me dismay, For these brief days of mine are but a morn, A handful of
poor violets, wind-worn, Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay Were not
the ill that to the perfect flower
Might be if cruel hand should disarray Its starry splendour when in
ripened hour It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream. Make ready,
little maid; sweet is the gleam That lightens this ill night, soft
clouds will
weep, The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath
Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep, The kindly myrtles shadow all
our parth. Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so, That I shall find
my love; speak and
we go On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing Of banished
doves--now, I will chant of woe, And though
my song be doleful, blithe I sing." O Night! O Night so true! The
promise of the
Day is full of guile. Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile; The
friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile. Dear Night! Bring weeping dew,
And sad enchantments
to undo the spells Of baleful day, while from thy silent cells Of dusk
and slumber, still heart's-peace exhales. O Night! O Night, pursue The
bitter Day, and from her keeping
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