 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
201
PERSIAN SONGS.
[Sweet are the garden spaces]
Sweet are the garden spaces,
Lighted with happy faces:
Long may their faces shine,
The merry drinkers of wine.
Lighted with happy faces:
Long may their faces shine,
The merry drinkers of wine.
The wind of the morning blows
Out of the heart of the rose:
My heart, or the rose at my feet,
Which is the sweetest, Sweet?
Out of the heart of the rose:
My heart, or the rose at my feet,
Which is the sweetest, Sweet?
But the rose will soon depart,
And leave its thorns in my heart;
Then I shall sigh, and wail,
And bleed, like the nightingale.
And leave its thorns in my heart;
Then I shall sigh, and wail,
And bleed, like the nightingale.
O nightingale, come with the dews,
Thy coming will be good news;
For lovers that cannot sleep
Listen to thee, and weep!
Thy coming will be good news;
For lovers that cannot sleep
Listen to thee, and weep!
[The heart where love and patience dwell]
The heart where love and patience dwell,
(But such there cannot be,)
I hold it not a heart, but stone,
It will not do for me.
Ah, no, a thousand pharsangs part
The loving and the patient heart.
(But such there cannot be,)
I hold it not a heart, but stone,
It will not do for me.
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The loving and the patient heart.
What discipline shall I adopt
To ease this woe of mine?
I harken to the harp in vain,
And drain the cups of wine;
I love, but cannot patient be,
Nor can the patient love like me.
To ease this woe of mine?
I harken to the harp in vain,
And drain the cups of wine;
I love, but cannot patient be,
Nor can the patient love like me.
[Not wholly, poet, from the eyes]
Not wholly, poet, from the eyesDoth love arise:
For words create, though ne'er express,
This happiness.
Once at the portal of the ear,
Let love appear,
There is no rest for heart, or brain,
Till loved again.
No need of sight, enough for me
To hear, not see.
The god I serve is painted blind,
To show his eyes are in his mind.
[My little soul, my lover]
My little soul, my lover,
He does not hear me sigh:
Tell me the street he lives in,
At once to him I'll fly.
He does not hear me sigh:
Tell me the street he lives in,
At once to him I'll fly.
If I can only find him,
He's sure to hear my prayer:
Tell me the street you live in,
O Mirza, tell me where.
He's sure to hear my prayer:
Tell me the street you live in,
O Mirza, tell me where.
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Give me a cup of wine, dear,
And listen to my plea;
Say, when you love another,
You want no more of me!
And listen to my plea;
Say, when you love another,
You want no more of me!
[Two strings for my guitar]
Two strings for my guitar
I will spin from your hair;
What else can you expect
From a lover in despair?
I will spin from your hair;
What else can you expect
From a lover in despair?
You grant a “Yes” to all,
But the man that is your own;
When I ask for a kiss,
It is “No” to me alone.
But the man that is your own;
When I ask for a kiss,
It is “No” to me alone.
Were I marble I would be
A floor where you might walk,
As stately as a cypress,
With an eye like a hawk.
A floor where you might walk,
As stately as a cypress,
With an eye like a hawk.
You said that you would come,
Where is your promise, dear?
For lo, I am alone,
And the midnight is here.
Where is your promise, dear?
For lo, I am alone,
And the midnight is here.
[Your hands are red with henna]
Your hands are red with henna,
And you wear a Cashmere shawl;
Such gay and cruel colors
Become you best of all.
And you wear a Cashmere shawl;
Such gay and cruel colors
Become you best of all.
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You stand in blooming beauty,
Like a mulberry-tree, my dear:
I've eaten mulberries often,
But not enough this year.
Like a mulberry-tree, my dear:
I've eaten mulberries often,
But not enough this year.
We did not sit together,
Nor touch our knees again:
I talked with you so little
I could not tell my pain.
Nor touch our knees again:
I talked with you so little
I could not tell my pain.
Come to me in the morning,
Again when day doth end:
Nobody, love, will mind it,
They'll say you are my friend!
Again when day doth end:
Nobody, love, will mind it,
They'll say you are my friend!
[She does not hear my sighing]
She does not hear my sighing,
My rose, my willow leaf;
And if she heard, what matter?
She would not heal my grief.
My rose, my willow leaf;
And if she heard, what matter?
She would not heal my grief.
Come to me, dear, when day breaks,
And come when day doth close;
I'm drunken with your beauty,
O European Rose!
And come when day doth close;
I'm drunken with your beauty,
O European Rose!
And if she's from Arabia,
This little love of mine,
Her mouth shall be my wine-glass,
Her kiss shall be my wine!
This little love of mine,
Her mouth shall be my wine-glass,
Her kiss shall be my wine!
Her travelling-packs are ready,
She fastens on her shawl;
Were I the shawl I'd hold her,
She should not go at all.
She fastens on her shawl;
Were I the shawl I'd hold her,
She should not go at all.
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When shall I see thee, darling,
And lighten my poor heart?
I come once more to whisper
Its secrets—and depart.
And lighten my poor heart?
I come once more to whisper
Its secrets—and depart.
[Do not yet put on your slippers]
Do not yet put on your slippers,I shall die:
Do not take your veil, belovèd,
Do not fly!
Ah, so sweet your conversation,
Do not go;
Stop a minute, Rose, my darling,
Leave not so!
'Tis the very hour for prattle,
'Tis the hour,
O my darling! O my sweetest
Poppy flower!
See, the ceiling of the chamber
Painted fine;
Rose was never like your blushes,
Rose of mine!
O my sunflower! My belovèd!
Linger here:
Linger, I have lost all patience,
All, my dear.
Sweetheart, 'tis a lonely chamber,
No one near:
Rose of Khansar, sweet as amber,
Blossom here!
Hurry, hurry on the wedding,
Or I die;
I am dying, dead already,
If you fly!
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Like a bow;
And your arrowy glances flying,
So, and so;
Stop, my love, another minute,
Do not go!
[I fell in love with a Turkish maid]
I fell in love with a Turkish maid,
(She sleeps, she does not wake,)
A scarlet turban covers her head,
(She sleeps, she does not wake.)
My eyes are red with tears,
And my sighs like smoke are driven,
The smoke of my burning heart
Reaching the seventh heaven.
The happiness of the world
Awakes for her sweet sake;
But she, she,
Who is more than happiness to me,
She sleeps, she does not wake.
(She sleeps, she does not wake,)
A scarlet turban covers her head,
(She sleeps, she does not wake.)
My eyes are red with tears,
And my sighs like smoke are driven,
The smoke of my burning heart
Reaching the seventh heaven.
The happiness of the world
Awakes for her sweet sake;
But she, she,
Who is more than happiness to me,
She sleeps, she does not wake.
I came and saw the maid asleep,
(For sometimes eyes forget to weep,
And hearts forget to ache;)
My arms embraced
Her slender waist,
And with my hands I pressed
The citrons of her breast;
(She slept, she did not wake).
Who weds, they say, a maiden,
Has a world of sweets in store,
Fresh as the buds in May;
But the riper charms of widows
Are like the fruits of autumn
That drop from day to day.
I measure with my steps the shore,
I hearken to the ocean's roar,
My heart is like to break—
She sleeps, she does not wake!
(For sometimes eyes forget to weep,
And hearts forget to ache;)
My arms embraced
Her slender waist,
And with my hands I pressed
The citrons of her breast;
(She slept, she did not wake).
Who weds, they say, a maiden,
Has a world of sweets in store,
Fresh as the buds in May;
But the riper charms of widows
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That drop from day to day.
I measure with my steps the shore,
I hearken to the ocean's roar,
My heart is like to break—
She sleeps, she does not wake!
[It is a morn in winter]
It is a morn in winter,
The air is white with snow,
And on the chinar branches
Jasmines seem to grow.
The air is white with snow,
And on the chinar branches
Jasmines seem to grow.
The furrowed fields and hill-tops
With icy treasures shine,
Like scales of silver fishes,
Or jewels in a mine.
With icy treasures shine,
Like scales of silver fishes,
Or jewels in a mine.
The bitter wind has banished
The silent nightingale,
And the rose, like some coy maiden,
Is muffled in a veil.
The silent nightingale,
And the rose, like some coy maiden,
Is muffled in a veil.
Its silver song of summer
No more the fountain sings,
And frozen are the rivers
That fed the baths of kings.
No more the fountain sings,
And frozen are the rivers
That fed the baths of kings.
No flower-girls in the market,
For flowers are out of date;
And the keepers of the roses
Have shut the garden gate.
For flowers are out of date;
And the keepers of the roses
Have shut the garden gate.
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No happy guests are drinking
Their goblets crowned with wine;
For gone are all the merchants
That sold the merry wine.
Their goblets crowned with wine;
For gone are all the merchants
That sold the merry wine.
And gone the dancing maidens
Before the winds and snows:
Their summer souls have followed
The nightingale and rose!
Before the winds and snows:
Their summer souls have followed
The nightingale and rose!
[Joy may be a miser]
Joy may be a miser,But Sorrow's purse is free.
I had two griefs already,
He gave two more to me.
He filled my eyes with water,
He filled my heart with pain;
And then, the liberal fellow,
He promised to again.
[Thus to waste the precious hours]
Thus to waste the precious hours,
With the hues and scents of flowers,
Captured by the woman's eyes
That bestows them, is not wise.
With the hues and scents of flowers,
Captured by the woman's eyes
That bestows them, is not wise.
Take the flowers that longest live,
And the sweetest odors give;
Scarce a summer's day they bloom,
Frailer still is woman's doom.
And the sweetest odors give;
Scarce a summer's day they bloom,
Frailer still is woman's doom.
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Therefore keep thy fancy free,
Woman knows not constancy:
This the soundest wits approve,
This is wise—but not to love!
Woman knows not constancy:
This the soundest wits approve,
This is wise—but not to love!
[Day and night my thoughts incline]
Day and night my thoughts incline
To the blandishments of wine:
Jars were made to drain, I think,
Wine, I know, was made to drink.
To the blandishments of wine:
Jars were made to drain, I think,
Wine, I know, was made to drink.
When I die, (the day be far!)
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,
Let the jar be filled with wine!
Should the potters make a jar
Out of this poor clay of mine,
Let the jar be filled with wine!
[In the market-place one day]
In the market-place one dayI saw a potter stamping clay,
And the clay beneath his tread
Lifted up its voice, and said,
“Potter, gentle be with me,
I was once a man like thee.”
[Apart from all the creatures of the earth]
(Sadi.)
Apart from all the creatures of the earthI sit and weep aloud, and in my grief
My eyes send up to heaven their hopeless tears.
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From out his hand still weeps for that same bird,
So I bewail my sweet but vanished life.
[What sweetness is there in the honeycomb]
(Hakim Sanayi.)
What sweetness is there in the honeycomb,
That is not tasted, Sweetest, in thy kiss?
That is not tasted, Sweetest, in thy kiss?
What beauty is there in the pheasant's walk
That is not seen, belovèd, in thy step?
That is not seen, belovèd, in thy step?
What heart in all the city is not thine?
The heart that is not thine no longer beats.
The heart that is not thine no longer beats.
The bird that flies not to thy nest of love
Deserves to fly no more: why has he wings?
Deserves to fly no more: why has he wings?
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |