KISMET
Centuries gone, on a vine-set mountain Where the soil was rich from the lava flow,Near a city built on the fiery fountain That belched red death in the Long Ago,Fate scrawled on your horoscope a sign:The flowers you planted should all be mine!
On the edge of the desert, where palm-trees hung, And the dromedaries with silver bellsChimed harmony to the Arab tongue, By a flat-roofed dwelling and shallow wells,You made a pleasance of fig and date,And you placed Another inside the gate. . .
But she died with the lamp of the bridal eve. A shadow out of the desert came;How long did your heart for her child-heart grieve? I was star—and blossom—and wind—and flame,Ere the sheep ran home to the shepherd's pipeEre the dates you gathered for her were ripe.
I set mare's milk in the gourd for you, I ground the grain, and I dried the fig,The moon was a wisp on the starry blue And you wedded me when the moon was bigCopper and round as a warrior's shield,And you laughed to grip me—and I, to yield—
