(Parvati at her lattice)
O Love! were you a basil—wreath to twine
among my tresses,
A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve,
O Love! were you the keora’s soul that haunts
my silken raiment,
A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I weave;
O Love! were you the scented fan
that lies upon my pillow,
A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my shrine,
Why should I fear the jealous dawn
that spreads with cruel laughter,
Sad veils of separation between your face and mine?
Haste, O wild—bee hours, to the gardens of the sun set!
Fly, wild—parrot day, to the orchards of the west!
Come, O tender night, with your sweet,
And bring me my Beloved to the shelter of my breast!
(Amar Singh in the saddle)
O Love! were you the hooded hawk upon my hand
Its collar—band of gleaming bells atinkle as I ride,
O Love! were you a turban—spray or
The radiant, swift, unconquered sword
that swingeth at my side;
O Love! were you a shield against the
arrows of my foemen,
An amulet of jade against the perils of the way,
How should the drum—beats of the dawn
divide me from your bosom,
Or the union of the midnight be ended with the day?
Haste, O wild—deer hours, to the meadows of the sunset!
Fly, wild stallion day, to the pastures of the west!
Come, O tranquil night, with your soft,
And bear me to the fragrance of my Beloved’s breast!