36
- ORACLES
For she is all the self I own,
And all I want of will.
She speaks not, and is known.
Her window shining chill
Whispers ‘‘ He lingers still.
Tama alone.”
IV.
But to-night the lamp must be wasted,
And the delicate hurt must ache,
And the sweet lips moan untasted,
My lady lie lonely awake.
The night is taken from love, and love’ S
guerdon
Is life and its burden.
To-night if I turn to my lover
I must'ask: If she be? who am I?
To-night if her heart I uncover
No heart in the night I espy.
I am grips with the question of eld, and the
sphinx holds fast
My eyes to the past.
Who am I, when I say I languish?
Who is she, if I call her mine?
And the fool’s and the wise man’s anguish
Are burnt in the bitter shrine.
The god is far as the stars, and the wine and
fire
Salt with desire.
Desunt cetera.
THE DANCE OF SHIVA.’
Written at the House of Sri Parananda
Swami, Ceylon.
WITH feet set terribly dancing,
With eyelids filled of flame,
Wild lightnings from Him glancing,
Lord Shiva went and came.
The dancing of His feet was heard
And was the final word.
1 The MS. of this Hymn most mysteriously
(for I am very careful) disappeared two days
after being written. I can remember no more
of it than the above; nor willinspiration return,
—A, C.
He danced the measure golden.
On dead men...
His Saints and Rishis ' olden, :
The yogins that...
He trampled them to dustand they
Were sparks and no more clay.
The dust thrown up around Him
_ In cycles whirled and twined,
Dim sparks that fled and found Him
Like mist beyond the mind.
The universe was peopled then
With little gods, and men.
In that ecstatic whirling
He saw not nor .
He knew not in His fervour
Creation’s sated sigh ;
The groan of the Preserver,
Life’s miserable lie. )
I broke that silence, and afraid
I knew not what I prayed.
Let peace awaken for an hour
And manifest as power.
Cease not the dance unceasing,
The glance nor swerve nor cease,
Thy peacé by power increasing
In me by power to peace.
Desunt cetera.
SONNET FOR A PICTURE.
Written in the woods above Kandy. Inscribed
to T, Davidson.
LURED by the loud big-breasted courtesan
That plies trained lechery of obedient eyes,
He sits, holds bed’s last slattern-sweet
surprise,
Late plucked from gutter to grace groves
of Pan.
1 The seven Rishis are the great Sages of
India. They received from the Gods the
sacred Books.