I shall remember this for aye and aye. 
    Whate’er may come,
    Although my lips are dumb,
  My spirit holds you to that yesterday.

IN THE TENTS OF AKBAR

  In the tents of Akbar
    Are dole and grief to-day,
  For the flower of all the Indies
    Has gone the silent way.

  In the tents of Akbar
    Are emptiness and gloom,
  And where the dancers gather,
    The silence of the tomb.

  Across the yellow desert,
   Across the burning sands,
  Old Akbar wanders madly,
    And wrings his fevered hands.

  And ever makes his moaning
    To the unanswering sky,
  For Sutna, lovely Sutna,
    Who was so fair to die.

  For Sutna danced at morning,
    And Sutna danced at eve;
  Her dusky eyes half hidden
    Behind her silken sleeve.

  Her pearly teeth out-glancing
    Between her coral lips,
  The tremulous rhythm of passion
    Marked by her quivering hips.

  As lovely as a jewel
    Of fire and dewdrop blent,
  So danced the maiden Sutna
    In gallant Akbar’s tent.

  And one who saw her dancing,
    Saw her bosom’s fall and rise
  Put all his body’s yearning
    Into his lovelit eyes.

  Then Akbar came and drove him—­
    A jackal—­from his door,
  And bade him wander far and look
    On Sutna’s face no more.

  Some day the sea disgorges,
    The wilderness gives back,
  Those half-dead who have wandered,
    Aimless, across its track.

  And he returned—­the lover,
    Haggard of brow and spent;
  He found fair Sutna standing
    Before her master’s tent.

  “Not mine, nor Akbar’s, Sutna!”
    He cried and closely pressed,
  And drove his craven dagger
    Straight to the maiden’s breast.

  Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna,
    So young, so dear, so fair,
  Her face is gray and silent
    Beneath her dusky hair.

  And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar,
    Who walks the desert sands,
  Crying aloud for Sutna,
    Wringing his fevered hands.

  In the tents of Akbar
    The tears of sorrow run,
  But the corpse of Sutna’s slayer,
    Lies rotting in the sun.

THE FOUNT OF TEARS

  All hot and grimy from the road,
    Dust gray from arduous years,
  I sat me down and eased my load
    Beside the Fount of Tears.

  The waters sparkled to my eye,
    Calm, crystal-like, and cool,
  And breathing there a restful sigh,
    I bent me to the pool.

  When, lo! a voice cried:  “Pilgrim, rise,
    Harsh tho’ the sentence be,
  And on to other lands and skies—­
    This fount is not for thee.

  “Pass on, but calm thy needless fears,
    Some may not love or sin,
  An angel guards the Fount of Tears;
    All may not bathe therein.”