I doubt not that celestial
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.
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.
for on this mountain is the city of the Yakshas.
Then, in familiar Alaka find
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Where lovers’ passion-trembling
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.
Where, brought to balconies’
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.