She leaves the dancing to reach the roof,
    With the lover who claims the passing hour,
Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof
    While the starlight falls in a silver shower. 
Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may,
    He, too, will suffer e’er life be spent,—­
But Yasmini’s soul has wandered away
    To join the Lover, who came,—­and went! 
            Ahi, Yasmini, He came,—­and went!

[1] Indian women wear a small mirror in a ring on their thumbs.

Among the Rice Fields

She was fair as a Passion-flower,
    (But little of love he knew.)
Her lucent eyes were like amber wine,
    And her eyelids stained with blue.

He called them the Gates of Fair Desire,
    And the Lakes where Beauty lay,
But I looked into them once, and saw
    The eyes of Beasts of Prey.

He praised her teeth, that were small and white
    As lilies upon his lawn,
While I remembered a tiger’s fangs
    That met in a speckled fawn.

She had her way; a lover the more,
    And I had a friend the less. 
For long there was nothing to do but wait
    And suffer his happiness.

But now I shall choose the sharpest Kriss
    And nestle it in her breast,
For dead, he is drifting down to sea,
    And his own hand wrought his rest

The Bride

Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers,
    Jasmin, Hibiscus, vermillion and white,
This is the day, and the Hour of Hours,
    Bring forth the Bride for her Lover’s delight. 
Maidens no more, as a maiden shall claim her,
    Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire. 
Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her? 
    She is a flower, and love is a fire. 
                         Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Give her the anklets, the rings and the necklace,
    Darken her eyelids with delicate Art,
Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless,
    By the Gods favoured, oh, Bridegroom thou art! 
Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender,
    Circle together the Mystical Fire,
Bridegroom,—­a whisper—­be gentle and tender,
    Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire. 
                         Abhi Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover
    Beauty, till yesterday, careless and wild,
Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover,
    Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child. 
Centre and Shrine of Mysterious Power,
    Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight,
Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour,
    Waiting the shade and the silence of night,
                         Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!