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Adela Florence Nicolson
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 39 pages of information about Last Poems.

Who further regard it as no disgrace
If loveliness lessen to serve the race,
Nor point the finger of jesting scorn
At her who carries the child unborn.

Ah, my heart, but we wandered far
From the light of the slanting fourfold Star!

Oh, palm-leaf thatch, where the melon thrives
Beneath the shade of the tamarind tree,
Thou coverest tranquil, graceful lives,
That want so little, that knew no haste,
    Nor the bitter goad of a too-full hour;
Whose soft-eyed women are lithe and tall,
And wear no garment below the knee,
    Nor veil or raiment above the waist,
But the beautiful hair, that dowers them all,
    And falls to the ground in a scented shower.

The youths return from their swift-flowing bath,
    With the swinging grace that their height allows,
Lightly climbing the river-side path,
    Their soft hair knotted above their brows.

Elephants wade the darkening river,
    Their bells, which tinkle in minor thirds,
Faintly sweet, like passionate birds
    Whose warbling wakens a sense of pain,—­
Thrill through the nerves and make them quiver,—­
    Heart, my heart, art thou happy again?

Here is beauty to feast thine eyes. 
    Here is the land of thy long desire. 
See how the delicate spirals rise
    Azure and faint from the wood-fed fire.

Where the cartmen wearily share their food,
    Ere they, by their bullocks, lie down to rest. 
Heart of mine, dost thou find it good
    This wide red road by the winds caressed?

This lone Parao, where the fireflies light? 
These tom-toms, fretting the peace of night?

Heart, thou hast wandered and suffered much,
    Death has robbed thee, and Life betrayed,
But there is ever a solace for such
    In that they are not lightly afraid.

The strength that found them the fire to love
    Finds them also the force to forget. 
Thy joy in thy dreaming lives to prove
    Thou art not mortally wounded yet.

Here, ’neath the arch of the vast, clear sky,
    Where range upon range the remote grey hills
Far in the distance recede and die,
    There is no space for thy trivial ills.

On the low horizon towards the sea,
    Faint yet vivid, the lightnings play,
The lucid air is kind as a kiss,
    The falling twilight is cool and grey. 
        What has sorrow to do with thee ? 
        Love was cruel? thou now art free. 
        Life unkind? it has given thee this!

The Tom-toms

Dost thou hear the tom-toms throbbing,
Like a lonely lover sobbing
For the beauty that is robbing him of all his life’s delight? 
Plaintive sounds, restrained, enthralling,
Seeking through the twilight falling
Something lost beyond recalling, in the darkness of the night.

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