Atma - A Romance

Can this be Moti, she who prates of being,

And life, and death, and fallacy, and moan?

Ah, how should I be fixed and steadfast? seeing

All things about me shift, I need must change;

Things which I thought were plain are waxen strange,

Things are unfathomable which I deemed

Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave,

Sunbeams are mysteries, and Love that seemed

All winged joy, and transport light as air,

Ah me, but Love is deeper than the grave,

Is deeper than the grave; I seek it there.

Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die!

And he is doomed to die who loved me!

O bitter, bitter end of tenderness!

O doleful issue of my happiness!

Weep, little maid, for one that loved me!

O might I with my last of mortal breath

Bid him the cruel treachery to flee,

And hear his voice and sink to happy death,

So still might live the one that loved me!

Cease, kindly maid, arise, and whisper low,

As moon to weeping clouds, until there rise

Like pallid rainbow, wan with spectral glow,

A thing of fearful joy athwart my skies,

A hope, a joy e'en yet that this might be,

That I should die for him who loved me.

I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,

For these brief days of mine are but a morn,

A handful of poor violets, wind-worn,

Or nurseling lily-buds which to mislay

Were not the ill that to the perfect flower

Might be if cruel hand should disarray

Its starry splendour when in ripened hour

It floats in tranquil state on Gunga's stream.

Make ready, little maid; sweet is the gleam

That lightens this ill night, soft clouds will weep,

The fervid bulbul still his song, beneath

Our tallices the blinking jasmines sleep,

The kindly myrtles shadow all our parth.

Speak, gentle maid, tell me it shall be so,

That I shall find my love; speak and we go

On pilgrimage more sweet than home-bent wing

Of banished doves--now, I will chant of woe,

And though my song be doleful, blithe I sing."

O Night!

O Night so true!

The promise of the Day is full of guile.

Fair is the Day, but crafty is her smile;

The friendly Night, it knows no subtle wile.

Dear Night!

Bring weeping dew,

And sad enchantments to undo the spells

Of baleful day, while from thy silent cells

Of dusk and slumber, still heart's-peace exhales.

O Night!

O Night, pursue

The bitter Day, and from her keeping wrest

Those cruel spoils, and to my empty breast

Give lethean calm, and dearest death, and rest.