Stars of the Desert/In the African desert
In the African Desert
Ah, but his lightest kiss was more sweet to me
Than any caress of thine, O silver sea!
His arms have held me gentlier e'en than thou,
In thy liquid, green embraces, hold'st me now.
Soft and cool as his breast, is thy foam above,
Even as soft as his ways and words of love.
Yet was his cruelty as the jagged teeth
Of the hungry, lurking rocks that lie beneath.
Over the reef thy ripples are breaking now,
Curled, as the soft, dark clusters around his brow.
Grim as an octopus in its darkened lair,
Ghastly and sinister thoughts lay hidden there.
Pale he was and quiet, with reticent eyes,
Sombre and flecked with gold as the midnight skies.
They whispered the savage blood of desert kings
Ran in his veins and stung him to cruel things.
Maybe; I know not,—care not—against his breast
I found a secret garden of joy and rest.
Yet his desire, though fierce, was a fleeting breath
And mine, alas, is a flame that burns till death.
"Here in my tent is a couch prepared for thee,
Rest thou awhile and slumber, awaiting me."
Kindly he spoke, when the weary march was done
And the camp-smoke rose across the setting sun.
Down I lay in the shadow; I did not see
That cactus thorns were the couch prepared for me.
Ah, the pain of that feverish, endless night,
And the fainting sleep that came with morning light.
Waking I found myself on the soft warm sands,
While he withdrew the thorns with remorseful hands,
Saying, "Forgive me again, and thou shalt rest
To-night, as thou desirest, against my breast."
Strange and sweet were the ways where his fancy trod,
A panther's fierceness linked to dreams of a God,
Passion, wild as the Desert, in strength and power,
Lips as soft and fresh as the touch of a flower.
These were his gifts of atonement through the night.
These, with persuasive words that enhanced delight,
And strange, sad songs and legends, which left his eyes
Aglow with the fire of sombre memories.
One still night, on the breast of a starry sea,
"Row, till I bid thee cease," he ordered me.
The skin wore through, and the paddle ends were red,
Before, when the sunrise came, the word was said.
Yet as the starlight fell on his long, lithe grace,
The vivid and tender beauty of his face,
I could have prayed that the night should never cease
And cursed the rosy morning that brought release.
Over the rocks he would swing me, to and fro,
Where the white surf foamed a thousand feet below,
Would smile and murmur, "I will not loose thee—quite,
This graceless body of mine needs thine to-night."
Locked in his hut, through the ardent heats of June,
He would not allay my thirst, by night or noon,
Saying, "If water and wine be held from thee
More eagerly willst thou drink my lips and me."
He pinned my lower lip to the lip above,
"Lest thou in my absence utter words of love."
With pointed shells he pricked on my breast his name,
"That thou may'st keep the stamp of thy love and shame."
What cared I? In the joy of passion's blindness
Little I recked of kindness or unkindness.
Only now, when he leaves me in lonely peace,
My torment begins because his tortures cease.
Never will any freshness of thine, O sea,
Allay this endless fever alight in me.
He could assuage with his cruel, tender hands,
But alas, he neither heeds nor understands.