Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble,
    Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord,
Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble,
    Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword. 
Thine is his valor oh, Bride, and his beauty,
    Thine to possess and re-issue again,
Such is thy tender and passionate duty,
    Licit thy pleasure and honoured thy pain. 
                         Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender,
    Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife. 
Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender,
    Brings thee the Honour and Burden of Life. 
Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime,
    Worship thy Lover with fear and delight,
Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime,
    Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night? 
                         Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Unanswered

Something compels me, somewhere.  Yet I see
No clear command in Life’s long mystery.

Oft have I flung myself beside my horse,
    To drink the water from the roadside mire,
And felt the liquid through my being course,
    Stilling the anguish of my thirst’s desire.

A simple want; so easily allayed;
After the burning march; water and shade.

Also I lay against the loved one’s heart
    Finding fulfilment in that resting-place,
Feeling my longing, quenched, was but a part
    Of nature’s ceaseless striving for the race.

But now, I know not what they would with me;
Matter or Force or God, if Gods there be.

I wait; I question; Nature heeds me not. 
    She does but urge in answer to my prayer,
“Arise and do!” Alas, she adds not what;
    “Arise and go!” Alas, she says not where!

The Net of Memory

I cast the Net of Memory,
Man’s torment and delight,
Over the level Sands of Youth
That lay serenely bright,
Their tranquil gold at times submerged
In the Spring Tides of Love’s Delight.

The Net brought up, in silver gleams,
Forgotten truth and fancies fair: 
Like opal shells, small happy facts
Within the Net entangled were
With the red coral of his lips,
The waving seaweed of his hair.

We were so young; he was so fair.

The Cactus Thicket

“The Atlas summits were veiled in purple gloom,
    But a golden moon above rose clear and free. 
The cactus thicket was ruddy with scarlet bloom
    Where, through the silent shadow, he came to me.”

“All my sixteen summers were but for this,
    That He should pass, and, pausing, find me fair. 
You Stars! bear golden witness!  My lips were his;
    I would not live till others have fastened there.”