back your coins, King’s Councillor. I am of those women you sent to the forest shrine to decoy the young ascetic who had never seen a woman. I failed in your bidding.
Dimly day was breaking when the hermit boy came to bathe in the stream, his tawny locks crowded on his shoulders, like a cluster of morning clouds, and his limbs shining like a streak of sunbeam. We laughed and sang as we rowed in our boat; we jumped into the river in a mad frolic, and danced around him, when the sun rose staring at us from the water’s edge in a flush of divine anger.
Like a child-god, the boy opened his eyes and watched our movements, the wonder deepening till his eyes shone like morning stars. He lifted his clasped hands and chanted a hymn of praise in his bird-like young voice, thrilling every leaf of the forest. Never such words were sung to a mortal woman before; they were like the silent hymn to the dawn which rises from the hushed hills. The women hid their mouths with their hands, their bodies swaying with laughter, and a spasm of doubt ran across his face. Quickly came I to his side, sorely pained, and, bowing to his feet, I said, “Lord, accept my service.”
I led him to the grassy bank, wiped his body with the end of my silken mantle, and, kneeling on the ground, I dried his feet with my trailing hair. When I raised my face and looked into his eyes, I thought I felt the world’s first kiss to the first woman,—Blessed am I, blessed is God, who made me a woman. I heard him say to me, “What God unknown are you? Your touch is the touch of the Immortal, your eyes have the mystery of the midnight.”
Ah, no, not that smile, King’s Councillor,— the dust of worldly wisdom has covered your sight, old man. But this boy’s innocence pierced the mist and saw the shining truth, the woman divine.
Ah, how the goddess wakened in me, at the awful light of that first adoration. Tears filled my eyes, the morning ray caressed my hair like a sister, and the woodland breeze kissed my forehead as it kisses the flowers.
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The women dapped their hands, and laughed their obscene laugh, and with veils dragging on the dust and hair hanging loose, they began to pelt him with flowers.
Alas, my spotless sun, could not my shame weave fiery mist to cover you in its folds? I fell at his feet and cried, “Forgive me.” I fled like a stricken deer through shade and sun, and cried as I fled, “Forgive me.” The women’s foul laughter pressed me like a crackling fire, but the words ever rang in my ears, “What God unknown are you?”
CROSSING
1
The Sun breaks out from the clouds on the day when I must go.
And the sky gazes upon the earth like God’s wonder.
My heart is sad, for it knows not from where comes its call.
Does the breeze bring the whisper of the world which I leave behind with its music of tears melting in the sunny silence? or the breath of the island in the faraway sea basking in the Summer of the unknown flowers?
2
When the market is over and they return homewards through the dusk,
I sit at the wayside to watch thee plying thy boat.
Crossing the dark water with the sunset gleam upon thy sail;
I see thy silent figure standing at the helm and suddenly catch thy eyes gazing upon me;
I leave my song; and cry to thee to take me across.
3
The wind is up, I set my sail of songs,
Steersman, sit at the helm.
For my boat is fretting to be free, to dance in the rhythm of the wind and water.
The day is spent, il is evening.
My friends of the shore have taken leave.
Loose the chain and heave the anchor, we sail by the starlight.
The wind is stirred into the murmur of music at this time of my departure.
Steersman, sit at the helm.
4
Accept me, my lord, accept me for this while.
Let those orphaned days that passed without thee be forgotten.
Only spread this little moment wide across thy lap, holding it under thy light.
I have wandered in pursuit of voices that drew me yet led me nowhere.
Now let me sit in peace and listen to thy words in the soul of my silence.
Do not turn away thy face from my heart’s dark secrets, but burn them till they are alight with thy fire.
5
The scouts of a distant storm have pitched their cloud-tents in the sky; the light has paled; the air is damp with tears in the voiceless shadows of the forest.
The peace of sadness is in my heart like the brooding silence upon the master’s lute before the music begins.
My world is still with the expectation of the great pain of thy coming into my life.
6
Thou hast done well, my lover, thou hast done well to send me thy fire of pain.
For my incense never yields its perfume till it burns, and my lamp is blind till it is lighted.
When my mind is numb its torpor must be stricken by thy love’s lightning; and the very darkness that blots my world burns like a torch when set afire by thy thunder.
7
Deliver me from my own shadows, my lord, from the wrecks and confusion of my days. For the night is dark and thy pilgrim is blinded. Hold thou my hand.
Deliver me from despair.
Touch with thy flame the lightless lamp of my sorrow.
Waken my tired strength from its sleep.
Do not let me linger behind counting my losses. Let the road sing to me of the house at every step. For the night is dark, and thy pilgrim is blinded. Hold thou my hand.
8
The lantern which I carry in my hand makes enemy of the darkness of the farther road.
And this wayside becomes a terror to me, where even the flowering tree frowns like a spectre of scowling menace; and the sound of my own steps comes back to me in the echo of muffled suspicion.
Therefore I pray for thy own morning light, when the far and the near will kiss each other and death and life will be one in love.
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