early visits to their young.
Nay, they’re busy making preparation
For thy coming, longing to behold thee,
Singing meanwhile to the morning star,
Which borrows from thine eyes its radiance,
From thy tresses, all its golden splendor.
O my Love, how long wilt hither tarry,
Wilt dally with the web of Time, how long?
Lone Lebanus, O my Love, is calling,
Yea, and waiting in his House of Song.
And over it our star is re-appearing!
The star of our own destiny is rising
O’er the mountains of embrace eternal,
O’er the cedars of the sacred faith,
O’er the ruins of the ancient temple,
Flooding them with light of tender pallor
Like the light that lingers in the eyes
Of parted lovers—shaking from the bosom
Of night their shadows, dew-drenched, iris-scented—
Garlanding the messengers of morning
For the coming of the well-loved stranger.
Yea, the Star of Love, the Light supernal,
Before which bowed the world in adoration,
Is re-appearing in the Orient heaven
For thy sake, for thee, O my Belovéd.
Yea, without thee, neither song nor flower
Nor star nor temple of antique Lebanus,
Has aught compelling of the Soul’s devotion.
But with thee, the caves, the naked ridges,
The very rocks betoken the divine.
O my Love, how long wilt hither tarry
Weaving gossamer of day and night?
Sad Lebanus, O my Love, is calling,
Yea, and waiting in his House of Light.
The Pagan
I walked into her Temple, as of yore
My Tyrian sires, allured by cryptic signs;
But sudden as I entered closed the door
Upon the hope that mortal love resigns
Before her ancient, myrtle-bowered shrines.
I sorrowed not; though every lamp I lit
Flamed up in speech articulate and said,
Beware, O foolish Worshipper! ’t is writ:
“Who craves a gift shall give his soul instead,
Who lights a lamp is cursèd of the dead.”
I did not heed; I passed from shrine to shrine,
Filling the lamps with oil, the Fane with light;
But when I approached, O One Eternal, thine,
I heard the terror of her tongue, and Night
Was creeping on her brow of malachite.
I did not stop, although the votive oil
I poured into thine urn to water turned;
But when the Dawn her enchantments came to foil,
The secret of thy clemency I learned—
Again the oil upon thine altar burned.
Then suddenly the Temple shook and swayed,
And all the shrines, except thine, disappeared;
Even so her heart, by knowledge undismayed,
On Love’s one altar with thy hand upreared,
To Love’s one God is evermore endeared.
The Lost Disciple
O Master, I can not adventure with thee;
At the Door of the Dawn, in my lone wandering,
I have broken my staff; for the true dawn is she
Who comes every day with her jar to the spring.
Ay, Master, I tarried last night at the gate
Of her garden, which kisses the Lake Galilee;
She was gathering flowers and fruits for the Fete,
And with tulips and poppies she beckoned to me.
In her lamp there was oil, in my hand there was fire;
In her house cried a voice, “O make haste with the flame!”
On my lips were the names of the daughters of Tyre,
On her breast were the lilies that whispered thy name.
I have dared, O my Master, to envy thy feet,
And to yearn for the love of a Magdalen fair;
I have dreamed that mine, too, in the heart of the street,
Were laved with her own hands and dried with her hair.
O Master, my lips her devotion have stained,
For her soul’s precious ointments were offered too late;
I have lost in the fire of my lust what I gained
In my longing and love for her love and thy fate.
From the Arabic
Why art thou so hushed and sad,
So thin and wan?
Who robbed thee of thy flesh and song—
Was it Ramadhan?
Nay, Ramadhan is not to blame,
For I have ceased to fast and pray;
But to my vacant Dwelling came
An unknown Guest—he came to stay.
And in my heart he eats and drinks;
He drinks my blood, of wines the best,
And eats my burning flesh—ah, yes,
My love for Zahra is that Guest.
She Went Out Singing
She went out singing, and the poppies still
Crowd round her door awaiting her return;
She went out dancing, and the doleful rill
Lingers beneath her walls her news to learn.
Their love is but a seed of what she has sown;
Their grief is but a shadow of my own.
O Tomb, O Tomb! did Zahra’s beauty fade,
Or dost thou still preserve it in thy gloom?
O Tomb, thou art nor firmament nor glade,
Yet in thee shines the moon and lilies bloom.
Hanem
Hanem, we must have met before,
Perhaps a thousand years ago;
I still remember when I tore
Your virgin veil of lunar snow.
By Allah, I remember, too,
When, sousing in my mortal bain,
You bit my lip and said, “Adieu,
When shall we, Syrian, meet again?”
Hanem, thine eyes are brighter far
Than when in mine they shone one day;
I wager every moon and star
The tax of lustre to them pay.
And those who dared with them to jest,
Where are they now?—those lovers slain
Who whispered dying on your breast,
“O Hanem, shall we meet again?”
The victims of your eyes are here,
In pyramids they keep their clay;
And even your sister Flames are near—
They fain would kiss my soul away.
Full many a time from them you bore
This mortal love, this mortal gain;
Remember Nubia’s sable shore—
When shall we, Hanem, meet again?
Why quickly through the Cairo street?—
Will you return?—Shall I remain?
Fate might not ever the chance repeat;
When shall we, Hanem, meet again?
O Freedom
O Freedom, in thy cause I fought,
For twenty years I fought in vain;
And in my mountain shelter naught
But worthless trophies now remain.
Yet in my heart I hear a cry,
Which never there makes a vain appeal:
I would once more beneath thy sky
Brandish my sharp and shining steel.
How much one stakes upon thy dream,
How much for but thy name we pay;
How cheap
