Between palpitating desires, and fragrant dreams.

[42]

[42]

35

WEARINESS

Weariness the tune of this evening melody,

Pain the lute to which I sing;

Ah! goddess, why this gray measure

In thy starry harmony?

The white conch[4] of the half-moon 

Silent as though all worship's ceased,

No incense-perfume from the forest censer

The breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon.

I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea,

The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep;

Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand,

Weariness the tune of this evening melody.

[4] In a Hindu temple conch shells are blown during or at the close of a worship.

[4]

[43]

 Prev. P 44/82 next