Collected Works (Vol. II)

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.