Sweden's Laureate: Selected Poems of Verner von Heidenstam/The Three Questions
THE THREE QUESTIONS.
An Isis statue stands in Nubia's plain,
Around it ancient ruins are reclining;
A pool lies near, a stone's throw from the fane.
The negro thinks, if, when the moon is shining,
He stands beside the statue on a night
Of Ramadan in vesture all of white
And turban, too, of white,—if then he throws
Three stones which he has blackened in the fire
Into the water where the moonlight glows,
Three questions will be solved to his desire.
Around it ancient ruins are reclining;
A pool lies near, a stone's throw from the fane.
The negro thinks, if, when the moon is shining,
He stands beside the statue on a night
Of Ramadan in vesture all of white
And turban, too, of white,—if then he throws
Three stones which he has blackened in the fire
Into the water where the moonlight glows,
Three questions will be solved to his desire.
If they all three the mirror chance to shatter,
He'll win the love of her he holds most dear,
Will live to ninety, die his tribe's ameer,
And fame throughout Sudan his praise will scatter.
He'll win the love of her he holds most dear,
Will live to ninety, die his tribe's ameer,
And fame throughout Sudan his praise will scatter.
'Tis night now, and a stately negro, stooping,
Waits, with the tamarisk shadows o'er him drooping.
Blue-white I see his muslin turban shine.
And on the sable head, in dimmer fashion,
I see the red lips, like a crimson gash on
The surface of a leather sack of wine.
So clear the desert moon, it gives the hue
Of day to all. Or does the morn awaken?
Yon tawny peak an odalisque form has taken,
Sitting there veiled in films of whitish-blue.
Waits, with the tamarisk shadows o'er him drooping.
Blue-white I see his muslin turban shine.
And on the sable head, in dimmer fashion,
I see the red lips, like a crimson gash on
The surface of a leather sack of wine.
So clear the desert moon, it gives the hue
Of day to all. Or does the morn awaken?
Yon tawny peak an odalisque form has taken,
Sitting there veiled in films of whitish-blue.
Beneath a palm-tree near the statue bending,
He stands a while. He quickly lifts his hand.
Far short the stone strikes, leadenly descending:
His name will ne'er be great in Sudan Land!
He tears the loosened turban from his head.
He throws another blackened stone, but that is
Too far, it falls amid the trees' gray lattice;
That means his early death, a sign of dread!
He stands a while. He quickly lifts his hand.
Far short the stone strikes, leadenly descending:
His name will ne'er be great in Sudan Land!
He tears the loosened turban from his head.
He throws another blackened stone, but that is
Too far, it falls amid the trees' gray lattice;
That means his early death, a sign of dread!
Frantic, amazed, hands clasped in desperate yearning,
As if in prayer, toward Isis' form he's turning.
He knows that now his deepest wishes lie
In that third stone, as on a falling die.
For if the stone into the pool he cast,
Though young, a beggar of the streets, he perish,
His desert-fiery love the hope may cherish
Ere then to reach the longed-for goal at last.
As if in prayer, toward Isis' form he's turning.
He knows that now his deepest wishes lie
In that third stone, as on a falling die.
For if the stone into the pool he cast,
Though young, a beggar of the streets, he perish,
His desert-fiery love the hope may cherish
Ere then to reach the longed-for goal at last.
He throws the stone, mindless of everything.
Two sweat-drops bathe his forehead, cold with terror.
Then suddenly there splashes in the mirror
A silver-bordered, ever-widening ring.
Two sweat-drops bathe his forehead, cold with terror.
Then suddenly there splashes in the mirror
A silver-bordered, ever-widening ring.