No More Learning

XXXIII

_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;

Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.

XXXIV

Reaching that temple at another time,
Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
For if thou mayest play the part sublime
Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.

XXXV

The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.

XXXVI

_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.

Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.

XXXVII

_After one night of repose in the city_

Where women steal to rendezvous by night
Through darkness that a needle might divide,
Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.

XXXVIII

On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
For they that labour for a friend do not delay.

XXXIX

The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.

XL

_the cloud is besought to travel to Deep River_.

Thy winsome shadow-soul will surely find
An entrance in Deep River's current bright,
As thoughts find entrance in a placid mind;
Then let no rudeness of thine own affright
The darting fish that seem her glances lotus-white.

XLI

But steal her sombre veil of mist away,
Although her reeds seem hands that clutch the dress
To hide her charms; thou hast no time to stay,
Yet who that once has known a dear caress
Could bear to leave a woman's unveiled loveliness?

XLII

_Thence to Holy Peak_,

The breeze 'neath which the breathing acre grants
New odours, and the forest figs hang sleek,
With pleasant whistlings drunk by elephants
Through long and hollow trunks, will gently seek
To waft thee onward fragrantly to Holy Peak.

XLIII

_the dwelling-place of Skanda, god of war, the
child of Shiva and Gauri, concerning whose
birth more than one quaint tale is told_.

There change thy form; become a cloud of flowers
With heavenly moisture wet, and pay the meed
Of praise to Skanda with thy blossom showers;
That sun-outshining god is Shiva's seed,
Fire-born to save the heavenly hosts in direst need.

XLIV

God Skanda's peacock--he whose eyeballs shine
By Shiva's moon, whose flashing fallen plume
The god's fond mother wears, a gleaming line
Over her ear beside the lotus bloom--
Will dance to thunders echoing in the caverns' room.

XLV

_Thence to Skin River, so called because it flowed forth from a
mountain of cattle carcasses, offered in sacrifice by the pious
emperor Rantideva_.

Adore the reed-born god and speed away,
While Siddhas flee, lest rain should put to shame
The lutes which they devoutly love to play;
But pause to glorify the stream whose name
Recalls the sacrificing emperor's blessed fame.

XLVI

Narrow the river seems from heaven's blue;
And gods above, who see her dainty line
Matched, when thou drinkest, with thy darker hue,
Will think they see a pearly necklace twine
Round Earth, with one great sapphire in its midst ashine.

XLVII

_The province of the Ten Cities_.

Beyond, the province of Ten Cities lies
Whose women, charming with their glances rash,
Will view thine image with bright, eager eyes,
Dark eyes that dance beneath the lifted lash,
As when black bees round nodding jasmine-blossoms flash.

XLVIII

_The Hallowed Land, where were fought the awful battles of the ancient
epic time_.

Then veil the Hallowed Land in cloudy shade;
Visit the field where to this very hour
Lie bones that sank beneath the soldier's blade,
Where Arjuna discharged his arrowy shower
On men, as thou thy rain-jets on the lotus-flower.

XLIX

_In these battles, the hero Balarama, whose weapon was a plough-share,
would take no part, because kinsmen of his were fighting in each army.
He preferred to spend the time in drinking from the holy river
Sarasvati, though little accustomed to any other drink than wine_.

Sweet friend, drink where those holy waters shine
Which the plough-bearing hero--loath to fight
His kinsmen--rather drank than sweetest wine
With a loving bride's reflected eyes alight;
Then, though thy form be black, thine inner soul is bright.

L

_The Ganges River, which originates in heaven.
Its fall is broken by the head of Shiva, who
stands on the Himalaya Mountains;
otherwise the shock would be too great for
the earth. But Shiva's goddess-bride is
displeased_.

Fly then where Ganges o'er the king of mountains
Falls like a flight of stairs from heaven let down
For the sons of men; she hurls her billowy fountains
Like hands to grasp the moon on Shiva's crown
And laughs her foamy laugh at Gauri's jealous frown.

LI

_The dark cloud is permitted to mingle with the clear stream of
Ganges, as the muddy Jumna River does near the city now called
Allahabad_.

If thou, like some great elephant of the sky,
Shouldst wish from heaven's eminence to bend
And taste the crystal stream, her beauties high--
As thy dark shadows with her whiteness blend--
Would be what Jumna's waters at Prayaga lend.

LII

_The magnificent Himalaya range_.

Her birth-place is Himalaya's rocky crest
Whereon the scent of musk is never lost,
For deer rest ever there where thou wilt rest
Sombre against the peak with whiteness glossed,
Like dark earth by the snow-white bull of Shiva tossed.

LIII

If, born from friction of the deodars,
A scudding fire should prove the mountain's bane,
Singeing the tails of yaks with fiery stars,
Quench thou the flame with countless streams of rain--
The great have power that they may soothe distress and pain.

LIV

If mountain monsters should assail thy path
With angry leaps that of their object fail,
Only to hurt themselves in helpless wrath,
Scatter the creatures with thy pelting hail--
For who is not despised that strives without avail?

LV

Bend lowly down and move in reverent state
Round Shiva's foot-print on the rocky plate
With offerings laden by the saintly great;
The sight means heaven as their eternal fate
When death and sin are past, for them that faithful wait.

LVI

The breeze is piping on the bamboo-tree;
And choirs of heaven sing in union sweet
O'er demon foe of Shiva's victory;
If thunders in the caverns drumlike beat,
Then surely Shiva's symphony will be complete.

LVII

_The mountain pass called the Swan-gate_.

Pass by the wonders of the snowy slope;
Through the Swan-gate, through mountain masses rent
To make his fame a path by Bhrigu's hope
In long, dark beauty fly, still northward bent,
Like Vishnu's foot, when he sought the demon's chastisement.

LVIII

_And at Mount Kailasa, the long journey is ended_;

Seek then Kailasa's hospitable care,
With peaks by magic arms asunder riven,
To whom, as mirror, goddesses repair,
So lotus-bright his summits cloud the heaven,
Like form and substance to God's daily laughter given.

LIX

Like powder black and soft I seem to see
Thine outline on the mountain slope as bright
As new-sawn tusks of stainless ivory;
No eye could wink before as fair a sight
As dark-blue robes upon the Ploughman's shoulder white.

LX

Should Shiva throw his serpent-ring aside
And give Gauri his hand, go thou before
Upon the mount of joy to be their guide;
Conceal within thee all thy watery store
And seem a terraced stairway to the jewelled floor.

LXI

I doubt not that celestial maidens sweet
With pointed bracelet gems will prick thee there
To make of thee a shower-bath in the heat;
Frighten the playful girls if they should dare
To keep thee longer, friend, with thunder's harshest blare.

LXII

Drink where the golden lotus dots the lake;
Serve Indra's elephant as a veil to hide
His drinking; then the tree of wishing shake,
Whose branches like silk garments flutter wide:
With sports like these, O cloud, enjoy the mountain side.

LXIII

_for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas_.

Then, in familiar Alaka find rest,
Down whom the Ganges' silken river swirls,
Whose towers cling to her mountain lover's breast,
While clouds adorn her face like glossy curls
And streams of rain like strings of close-inwoven pearls.


LATTER CLOUD

I

_The splendid heavenly city Alaka_,

Where palaces in much may rival thee--
Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers--
Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody--
Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers--
Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.

II

_where the flowers which on earth blossom at different seasons, are
all found in bloom the year round_.

Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines,
And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare,
Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twines
In women's braids, and summer siris fair,
The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.

III

_Here grows the magic tree which yields whatever is desired_.

Where men with maids whose charm no blemish mars
Climb to the open crystal balcony
Inlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars,
And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree,
And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.

IV

Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wed
Are fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' spray
In shadows that the trees of heaven spread;
In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play,
Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.

V

Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers cling
To silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,
The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling,
Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side.
Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.

VI

Where, brought to balconies' palatial tops
By ever-blowing guides, were clouds before
Like thee who spotted paintings with their drops;
Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more,
But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.

VII

_Here are the stones from which drops of water
ooze when the moon shines on them_.

Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread
Great drops of water trickle in the night--
When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled--
To ease the languors of the women's plight
Who lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.

VIII

_Here are the magic gardens of heaven_.

Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,
Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,
Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,
The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung
Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

IX

Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed
At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls
That fluttered as they stole along afraid,
By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,
By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

X

_Here the god of love is not seen, because of
the presence of his great enemy, Shiva.
Yet his absence is not severely felt_.

Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,
Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign;
His task is done by clever maids, for lo!
Their frowning missile glances, darting plain
At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

XI

_Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.
For the Mine of Sentiment declares:
"Women everywhere have four kinds of
ornaments--hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes,
cosmetics; anything else is local_. "

Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance
The loveliness of maidens young and sweet:
Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,
And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,
And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

XII

_And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha_,

There, northward from the master's palace, see
Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;
And near it grows a little coral-tree,
Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star,
Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

XIII

_with its artificial pool_;

A pool is near, to which an emerald stair
Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold
Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,
The wistful swans are glad when they behold
Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

XIV

_its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like
the dark cloud girdled by the lightening_;

And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill
Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit;
She loves the spot; and while I marvel still
At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit
About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.

XV

_its two favourite trees, which will not blossom
while their mistress is grieving_;

The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,
The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bower
Of amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;
Like me, they wait to feel the winning power
Of her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.

XVI

_its tame peacock_;

A golden pole is set between the pair,
With crystal perch above its emerald bands
As green as young bamboo; at sunset there
Thy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,
And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.

XVII

_and its painted emblems of the god
of wealth_.

These are the signs--recall them o'er and o'er,
My clever friend--by which the house is known,
And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:
Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone--
The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.

XVIII

Small as the elephant cub thou must become
For easy entrance; rest where gems enhance
The glory of the hill beside my home,
And peep into the house with lightning-glance,
But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.

XIX

_The Yaksha's bride_.

The supremest woman from God's workshop gone--
Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips,
Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn,
An idly graceful movement, generous hips,
Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips--

XX

Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anew
Passing these heavy days in longings keen,
My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few,
My second life, shall there of thee be seen--
But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.

XXI

Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden;
Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs;
The face that rests upon her hand is hidden
By hanging curls, as when the glory dies
Of the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.

XXII

_The passion of love passes through ten stages,
eight of which are suggested in this stanza
and the stanzas which follow. The first
stage is not indicated; it is called Exchange
of Glances_.

Thou first wilt see her when she seeks relief
In worship; or, half fancying, half recalling,
She draws mine image worn by absent grief;
Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling:
"Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling. "

XXIII

_In this stanza and the preceding one is
suggested the second stage: Wistfulness_.

Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt,
And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain;
For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert,
And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again,
Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.

XXIV

_Here is suggested the third stage: Desire_.

Or counts the months of absence yet remaining
With flowers laid near the threshold on the floor,
Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gaining
The memories recollected o'er and o'er--
woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.

XXV

_Here is suggested the fourth stage: Wakefulness_.

Such daytime labours doubtless ease the ache
Which doubly hurts her in the helpless dark;
With news from me a keener joy to wake,
Stand by her window in the night, and mark
My sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.

XXVI

_Here is suggested the fifth stage: Emaciation_.

Resting one side upon that widowed bed,
Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height,
So slender she, now worn with anguish dread,
Passing with stifling tears the long, sad night
Which, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.

XXVII

_Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss of
Interest in Ordinary Pleasures_.

On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashes
She looks with the old delight, then turns away
And veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes,
Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay,
But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.

XXVIII

_Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss of
Youthful Bashfulness_.

One unanointed curl still frets her cheek
When tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip;
And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seek
That we might be united though in sleep--
Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.

XXIX

_Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness.
For if she were not absent-minded,
she would arrange the braid so
as not to be annoyed by it_.

Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft--
With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness--
So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft:
That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness,
Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.

XXX

_Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration.
The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested_.

The delicate body, weak and suffering,
Quite unadorned and tossing to and fro
In oft-renewing wretchedness, will wring
Even from thee a raindrop-tear, I know--
Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.

XXXI

I know her bosom full of love for me,
And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieve
In this our first divorce; it cannot be
Self-flattery that idle boastings weave--
Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.

XXXII

_Quivering of the eyelids_

Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shine
Of fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly,
Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine--
Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nigh
As water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.

XXXIII

_and trembling of the limbs are omens of
speedy union with the beloved_.

And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove,
Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower,
No longer showing marks of my rough love,
Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power,
The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.

XXXIV

But if she should be lost in happy sleep,
Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace,
And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keep
The dreaming vision of her lover's face--
Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.

XXXV

As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder,
Wake her with breezes blowing mistily;
Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunder
Speak boldly, though she answer haughtily
With eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.

XXXVI

_The cloud is instructed how to announce himself_

"Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friend
Is come to tell thee what himself did say--
A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that send
All weary wanderers hastening on their way,
Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay. "

XXXVII

_in such a way as to win the favour of his auditor_.

Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed,
Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beating
And joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heed
The after message: such a friendly greeting
Is hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.

XXXVIII

_The message itself_.

Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak,
Remembering kindness is its own reward;
"Thy lover lives, and from the holy peak
Asks if these absent days good health afford--
Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.

XXXIX

With body worn as thine, with pain as deep,
With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine,
With sighs more burning than the sighs that keep
Thy lips ascorch--doomed far from thee to pine,
He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.

XL

He used to love, when women friends were near,
To whisper things he might have said aloud
That he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear;
Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud,
He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.

XLI

_According to the treatise called "Virtues
Banner," a lover has four solaces in separation:
first, looking at objects that remind
him of her he loves_;

'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines,
Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer,
Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines,
Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear--
Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.

XLII

_second, painting a picture of her_;

And when I paint that loving jealousy
With chalk upon the rock, and my caress
As at thy feet I lie, I cannot see
Through tears that to mine eyes unbidden press--
So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.

XLIII

_third, dreaming of her_;

And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight,
Mine own though but in visions of a dream--
They who behold the oft-repeated sight,
The kind divinities of wood and stream,
Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.

XLIV

_fourth, touching something which she
has touched_.

Himalaya's breeze blows gently from the north,
Unsheathing twigs upon the deodar
And sweet with sap that it entices forth--
I embrace it lovingly; it came so far,
Perhaps it touched thee first, my life's unchanging star!

XLV

Oh, might the long, long night seem short to me!
Oh, might the day his hourly tortures hide!
Such longings for the things that cannot be,
Consume my helpless heart, sweet-glancing bride,
In burning agonies of absence from thy side.

XLVI

_The bride is besought not to lose heart at
hearing of her lover's wretchedness_,

Yet much reflection, dearest, makes me strong,
Strong with an inner strength; nor shouldst thou feel
Despair at what has come to us of wrong;
Who has unending woe or lasting weal?
Our fates move up and down upon a circling wheel.

XLVII

_and to remember that the curse has its
appointed end, when the rainy season is
over and the year of exile fulfilled. Vishnu
spends the rainy months in sleep upon the
back of the cosmic serpent Shesha_.

When Vishnu rises from his serpent bed
The curse is ended; close thine eyelids tight
And wait till only four months more are sped;
Then we shall taste each long-desired delight
Through nights that the full autumn moon illumines bright.

XLVIII

_Then is added a secret which, as it could not
possibly be known to a third person,
assures her that the cloud is a true
messenger_.

And one thing more: thou layest once asleep,
Clasping my neck, then wakening with a scream;
And when I wondered why, thou couldst but weep
A while, and then a smile began to beam:
"Rogue! Rogue! I saw thee with another girl in dream. "

XLIX

This memory shows me cheerful, gentle wife;
Then let no gossip thy suspicions move:
They say the affections strangely forfeit life
In separation, but in truth they prove
Toward the absent dear, a growing bulk of tenderest love. '"

L

_The Yaksha then begs the cloud to return
with a message of comfort_.

Console her patient heart, to breaking full
In our first separation; having spoken,
Fly from the mountain ploughed by Shiva's bull;
Make strong with message and with tender token
My life, so easily, like morning jasmines, broken.

LI

I hope, sweet friend, thou grantest all my suit,
Nor read refusal in thy solemn air;
When thirsty birds complain, thou givest mute
The rain from heaven: such simple hearts are rare,
Whose only answer is fulfilment of the prayer.

LII

_and dismisses him, with a prayer for his
welfare_.

Thus, though I pray unworthy, answer me
For friendship's sake, or pity's, magnified
By the sight of my distress; then wander free
In rainy loveliness, and ne'er abide
One moment's separation from thy lightning bride.

* * * * *




THE SEASONS


_The Seasons_ is an unpretentious poem, describing in six short cantos
the six seasons into which the Hindus divide the year. The title is
perhaps a little misleading, as the description is not objective, but
deals with the feelings awakened by each season in a pair of young
lovers. Indeed, the poem might be called a Lover's Calendar.
Kalidasa's authorship has been doubted, without very cogent argument.
The question is not of much interest, as _The Seasons_ would neither
add greatly to his reputation nor subtract from it.

The whole poem contains one hundred and forty-four stanzas, or
something less than six hundred lines of verse. There follow a few
stanzas selected from each canto.

SUMMER

Pitiless heat from heaven pours
By day, but nights are cool;
Continual bathing gently lowers
The water in the pool;
The evening brings a charming peace:
For summer-time is here
When love that never knows surcease,
Is less imperious, dear.

Yet love can never fall asleep;
For he is waked to-day
By songs that all their sweetness keep
And lutes that softly play,
By fans with sandal-water wet
That bring us drowsy rest,
By strings of pearls that gently fret
Full many a lovely breast.

The sunbeams like the fires are hot
That on the altar wake;
The enmity is quite forgot
Of peacock and of snake;
The peacock spares his ancient foe,
For pluck and hunger fail;
He hides his burning head below
The shadow of his tail.

Beneath the garland of the rays
That leave no corner cool,
The water vanishes in haze
And leaves a muddy pool;
The cobra does not hunt for food
Nor heed the frog at all
Who finds beneath the serpent's hood
A sheltering parasol.

Dear maiden of the graceful song,
To you may summer's power
Bring moonbeams clear and garlands long
And breath of trumpet-flower,
Bring lakes that countless lilies dot,
Refreshing water-sprays,
Sweet friends at evening, and a spot
Cool after burning days.


THE RAINS

The rain advances like a king
In awful majesty;
Hear, dearest, how his thunders ring
Like royal drums, and see
His lightning-banners wave; a cloud
For elephant he rides,
And finds his welcome from the crowd
Of lovers and of brides.

The clouds, a mighty army, march
With drumlike thundering
And stretch upon the rainbow's arch
The lightning's flashing string;
The cruel arrows of the rain
Smite them who love, apart
From whom they love, with stinging pain,
And pierce them to the heart.

The forest seems to show its glee
In flowering nipa plants;
In waving twigs of many a tree
Wind-swept, it seems to dance;
Its ketak-blossom's opening sheath
Is like a smile put on
To greet the rain's reviving breath,
Now pain and heat are gone.

To you, dear, may the cloudy time
Bring all that you desire,
Bring every pleasure, perfect, prime,
To set a bride on fire;
May rain whereby life wakes and shines
Where there is power of life,
The unchanging friend of clinging vines,
Shower blessings on my wife.


AUTUMN

The autumn comes, a maiden fair
In slenderness and grace,
With nodding rice-stems in her hair
And lilies in her face.
In flowers of grasses she is clad;
And as she moves along,
Birds greet her with their cooing glad
Like bracelets' tinkling song.

A diadem adorns the night
Of multitudinous stars;
Her silken robe is white moonlight,
Set free from cloudy bars;
And on her face (the radiant moon)
Bewitching smiles are shown:
She seems a slender maid, who soon
Will be a woman grown.

Over the rice-fields, laden plants
Are shivering to the breeze;
While in his brisk caresses dance
The blossom-burdened trees;
He ruffles every lily-pond
Where blossoms kiss and part,
And stirs with lover's fancies fond
The young man's eager heart.


WINTER

The bloom of tenderer flowers is past
And lilies droop forlorn,
For winter-time is come at last,
Rich with its ripened corn;
Yet for the wealth of blossoms lost
Some hardier flowers appear
That bid defiance to the frost
Of sterner days, my dear.

The vines, remembering summer, shiver
In frosty winds, and gain
A fuller life from mere endeavour
To live through all that pain;
Yet in the struggle and acquist
They turn as pale and wan
As lonely women who have missed
Known love, now lost and gone.

Then may these winter days show forth
To you each known delight,
Bring all that women count as worth
Pure happiness and bright;
While villages, with bustling cry,
Bring home the ripened corn,
And herons wheel through wintry sky,
Forget sad thoughts forlorn.


EARLY SPRING

Now, dearest, lend a heedful ear
And listen while I sing
Delights to every maiden dear,
The charms of early spring:
When earth is dotted with the heaps
Of corn, when heron-scream
Is rare but sweet, when passion leaps
And paints a livelier dream.

When all must cheerfully applaud
A blazing open fire;
Or if they needs must go abroad,
The sun is their desire;
When everybody hopes to find
The frosty chill allayed
By garments warm, a window-blind
Shut, and a sweet young maid.

Then may the days of early spring
For you be rich and full
With love's proud, soft philandering
And many a candy-pull,
With sweetest rice and sugar-cane:
And may you float above
The absent grieving and the pain
Of separated love.


SPRING

A stalwart soldier comes, the spring,
Who bears the bow of Love;
And on that bow, the lustrous string
Is made of bees, that move
With malice as they speed the shaft
Of blossoming mango-flower
At us, dear, who have never laughed
At love, nor scorned his power.

Their blossom-burden weights the trees;
The winds in fragrance move;
The lakes are bright with lotuses,
The women bright with love;
The days are soft, the evenings clear
And charming; everything
That moves and lives and blossoms, dear,
Is sweeter in the spring.

The groves are beautifully bright
For many and many a mile
With jasmine-flowers that are as white
As loving woman's smile:
The resolution of a saint
Might well be tried by this;
Far more, young hearts that fancies paint
With dreams of loving bliss.

* * * * *



EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY

By Ernest Rhys

MADE AT THE TEMPLE

PRESS LETCHWORTH IN GREAT BRITAIN





Victor Hugo said a Library was "an act of faith," and some unknown
essayist spoke of one so beautiful, so perfect, so harmonious in all
its parts, that he who made it was smitten with a passion. In that
faith the promoters of Everyman's Library planned it out originally on
a large scale; and their idea in so doing was to make it conform as
far as possible to a perfect scheme. However, perfection is a thing to
be aimed at and not to be achieved in this difficult world; and since
the first volumes appeared, now several years ago, there have been
many interruptions. A great war has come and gone; and even the City
of Books has felt something like a world commotion. Only in recent
years is the series getting back into its old stride and looking
forward to complete its original scheme of a Thousand Volumes. One of
the practical expedients in that original plan was to divide the
volumes into sections, as Biography, Fiction, History, Belles Lettres,
Poetry, Romance, and so forth; with a compartment for young people,
and last, and not least, one of Reference Books. Beside the
dictionaries and encyclopaedias to be expected in that section, there
was a special set of literary and historical atlases. One of these
atlases dealing with Europe, we may recall, was directly affected by
the disturbance of frontiers during the war; and the maps had to be
completely revised in consequence, so as to chart the New Europe which
we hope will now preserve its peace under the auspices of the League
of Nations set up at Geneva. That is only one small item, however, in
a library list which runs already to the final centuries of the
Thousand. The largest slice of this huge provision is, as a matter of
course, given to the tyrannous demands of fiction. But in carrying out
the scheme, publishers and editors contrived to keep in mind that
books, like men and women, have their elective affinities. The present
volume, for instance, will be found to have its companion books, both
in the same section and even more significantly in other sections.
With that idea too, novels like Walter Scott's _Ivanhoe_ and _Fortunes
of Nigel_, Lytton's _Harold_ and Dickens's _Tale of Two Cities_, have
been used as pioneers of history and treated as a sort of holiday
history books. For in our day history is tending to grow more
documentary and less literary; and "the historian who is a stylist,"
as one of our contributors, the late Thomas Seccombe, said, "will soon
be regarded as a kind of Phoenix. " But in this special department of
Everyman's Library we have been eclectic enough to choose our history
men from every school in turn. We have Grote, Gibbon, Finlay,
Macaulay, Motley, Frescott. We have among earlier books the Venerable
Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, have completed a Livy in an
admirable new translation by Canon Roberts, while Caesar, Tacitus,
Thucydides and Herodotus are not forgotten. "You only, O Books," said
Richard de Bury, "are liberal and independent; you give to all who
ask. " The delightful variety, the wisdom and the wit which are at the
disposal of Everyman in his own library may well, at times, seem to
him a little embarrassing. He may turn to Dick Steele in _The
Spectator_ and learn how Cleomira dances, when the elegance of her
motion is unimaginable and "her eyes are chastised with the simplicity
and innocence of her thoughts. " He may turn to Plato's Phaedrus and
read how every soul is divided into three parts (like Caesar's Gaul).
He may turn to the finest critic of Victorian times, Matthew Arnold,
and find in his essay on Maurice de Guerin the perfect key to what is
there called the "magical power of poetry. " It is Shakespeare, with
his

"daffodils That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty;"

it is Wordsworth, with his

"voice . . . heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides;"

or Keats, with his

". . . . moving waters at their priest-like task
Of cold ablution round Earth's human shores. "

William Hazlitt's "Table Talk," among the volumes of Essays, may help
to show the relationship of one author to another, which is another
form of the Friendship of Books. His incomparable essay in that
volume, "On Going a Journey," forms a capital prelude to Coleridge's
"Biographia Literaria" and to his and Wordsworth's poems.
In the same
way one may turn to the review of Moore's Life of Byron in Macaulay's
_Essays_ as a prelude to the three volumes of Byron's own poems,
remembering that the poet whom Europe loved more than England did was
as Macaulay said: "the beginning, the middle and the end of all his
own poetry. " This brings us to the provoking reflection that it is the
obvious authors and the books most easy to reprint which have been the
signal successes out of the many hundreds in the series, for Everyman
is distinctly proverbial in his tastes. He likes best of all an old
author who has worn well or a comparatively new author who has gained
something like newspaper notoriety. In attempting to lead him on from
the good books that are known to those that are less known, the
publishers may have at times been too adventurous. The late _Chief_
himself was much more than an ordinary book-producer in this critical
enterprise. He threw himself into it with the zeal of a book-lover and
indeed of one who, like Milton, thought that books might be as alive
and productive as dragons' teeth, which, being "sown up and down the
land, might chance to spring up armed men. " Mr. Pepys in his _Diary_
writes about some of his books, "which are come home gilt on the
backs, very handsome to the eye. " The pleasure he took in them is that
which Everyman may take in the gilt backs of his favourite books in
his own Library, which after all he has helped to make good and
lasting.