1
Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose
bodiless rush stagnant space frets into eddying bubbles
of light.
Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across
his immeasurable loneliness?
Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason
why your tangled tresses break into stormy riot and
pearls of fire roll along your path as from a broken
necklace?
Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into
sweetness, sweeping aside all waste; the storm centred
with your dancing limbs shakes the sacred shower of
death over life and freshens her growth.
Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment,
the world would rumble into a heap, an encumbrance,
barring its own progress, and even the least speck
of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity
with an unbearable pressure.
My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen
feet round which the anklets of light are shaken.
They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my
blood surges the psalm of the ancient sea.
I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from
world to world and form to form, scattering my being
in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings and songs.
The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances
like thine own desire, my heart!
Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed
dark towards limitless light.
2
We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads
I stop to bid you farewell.
Your path is wide and straight before you, but my
call comes up by ways from the unknown.
I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the
stars to where day breaks behind the hills; I shall
follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days
into a wreath on a single thread of song, “I
love.”
3
It was growing dark when I asked her, “What
strange land have I come to?”
She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in
the throat of her jar, as she walked away.
The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land
appears as though it already belonged to the past.
The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a
wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the
lane.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,—for
I love the look of this land.
The evening star goes down behind the temple dome,
and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark
water.
Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows
is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside
trees and bushes. Still that wristlet tinkles
against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle
from down the lane littered with leaves.
The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like,
and the town hums wearily.
Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.
