Page:TheBirth of the War-God.djvu/47

And guide her trembling at the thunder's roar
Safe through the darkness to her lover's door.
In vain the wine-cup, as it circles by,
Lisps in her tongue and sparkles in her eye,
Long locks are streaming, and the cheek glows red,
But all is mockery, Love—dear Love—is dead.
The Moon, sweet spirit, shall lament for thee.
Late, dim, and joyless shall his rising be, —
Days shall fly on, and he forget to take
His full bright glory, mourning for thy sake.
Say, Káma, say, whose arrow now shall be
The soft green shoot of thy dear Mango tree.
The favourite spray which Köils love so well,
And praise in sweetest strain its wondrous spell?
This line of bees which strings thy useless bow
Hums mournful echo to my cries of woe;
Come in thy lovely shape and teach again
The Köil's mate, that knows the tender strain.
Her gentle task to waft to longing ears
The lover's hope, the distant lover's fears.
Come, bring once more that ecstasy of bliss.
The fond dear look, the smile, and ah! that kiss!
Fainting with woe, my soul refuses rest
When memory pictures how I have been blest.
See, thou didst weave a garland, love, to deck
With all Spring's fairest buds thy Reti's neck;
Sweet are those flowers as they were culled to-day,
And is my Káma's form more frail than they?
His pleasant task my lover had begun.
But stern Gods took him ere the work was done;
Return, my Káma, at thy Reti's cry,
One foot 's untinted with the rosy dye.