Last Poems
Translations from the Book of Indian Love

I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse,

Made public never words inspired by thee,

Lest strangers’ lips should carelessly rehearse

Things that were sacred and too dear to me.

Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years

Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw,

Stern to thyself, thy comrades’ faults and fears

Proved generously thine only law.

Small joy was I to thee; before we met

Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save.

Useless my love—as vain as this regret

That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.

L. H.

Oh, Masters, you who rule the world,

Will you not wait with me awhile,

When swords are sheathed and sails are furled,

And all the fields with harvest smile?

I would not waste your time for long,

I ask you but, when you are tired,

To read how by the weak, the strong

Are weighed and worshipped and desired.

When weary of the Mart, the Loom,

The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks,

The Barrack-square, the Engine-room,

The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,—

When tents are pitched and work is done,

While restful twilight broods above,

By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun,

See in my songs how women love.

We shared your lonely watch by night,

We knew you faithful at the helm,

Our thoughts went with you through the fight,

That saved a soul,—or wrecked a realm

Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you,

In pride and joy, when you prevailed,

And when you died, serene and true:

—We wept in silence when you failed!

Oh, brain that did not gain the gold!

Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword,

Here is the love, that is not sold,

Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!

You played and lost the game? What then?

The rules are

BU KİTABI OKUMAK İÇİN ÜYE OLUN VEYA GİRİŞ YAPIN!

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