The Mother’s Tragedy

THE FATAL FORCE 5 3 Glow from his palace, as the sun Leaps to the spring, whose coursers run Flaming before their golden master, As death and winter and disaster Fall from the Archer’s bitter kiss Fast to their mute abyss. The pale sweet blooms of lotos burn ; The scent of spring is in the soul; Men’s spirits to the loftiest turn; Light is extended and made whole. The waters of the whispering Nile Lisp of their loves a little while, Then break, like songsters, into sighing, Because the lazy days are dying; And swift and tawny streams must rise World’s world to fertilise. The lotos is afire for love, Its yearnings are immortal still ; But in its bosom, fed thereof, Lust, like a child, will have his will. Immortal fervour, strangely blent With mystic sensual sacrament, Fills up its cup; its petals tremble With faint desires that dissemble The fierce intention to be wed, One with the spring sun’s head. The fountains of the river yearn Toward the sacred temple-walis,