Were it not well if our love could forget them Veiling the _was_ with the dawn of the _is_? Dead with the past we should never regret them, Being no joys like this.
When they were gone and the Present stood speechful, Ardent in word and in look and in kiss, What though we know that their eyes are beseechful, Those were no joys like this.
Is it not well to have more of the spirit, Living for Futures where naught is amiss, Less of the flesh with the Past pining near it? Is there a joy like this?
_Leaving the garden for the lane. He, with lightness of heart._
We will leave reason, Sweet, for a season; Reason were treason Now that the nether Spaces are clad, oh, In silvery shadow-- We will be glad, oh, Glad as this weather!
Heart unto heart, where the moonlight is slanted, Let us believe that our souls are enchanted:-- I in the castle-keep; you are the airy Prince who comes seeking me; Love is the Fairy Bringing our hearts together.
Starlight in masses Over us passes; And in the grass is Many a flower: Now will you tell me How'd you enspell me? What once befell me There in your bower?
Soul unto soul--in the moon's wizard glory, Let us believe we are parts in a story:-- I am a poem; a poet you hear it Whispered in star and in flower; a Spirit, Love, puts my soul in your power.
Perhaps we lived in the days Of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid; And loved, as the story says Did the Sultan's favorite one And the Persian Emperor's son, Ali ben Bekkar, he Of the Kisra dynasty.
Do you know the story?--Well, You were Haroun's Sultana. When night on the palace fell, A slave through a secret door,-- Low-arched on the Tigris' shore,-- By a hidden winding stair Brought me to your bower there.
Then there was laughter and mirth, And feasting and singing together, In a chamber of wonderful worth; In a chamber vaulted high On columns of ivory; Its dome, like the irised skies, Mooned over with peacock eyes; Its curtains and furniture, Damask and juniper.
Ten slave girls--like unto blooms-- Stand, holding tamarisk torches, Silk-clad from the Irak looms; Ten handmaidens serve the feast, Each girl like a star in the east; Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune, Wait, each like the Ramadan moon.
For you in a stuff of Merv Blue-clad, unveiled and jewelled, No metaphor known may serve: Scarved deep with your raven hair, The jewels like fireflies there, Blossom and moon and star, The Lady Shemsennehar.