From the Desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee! With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain! I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Bedouin Love-Song
More from Poet
-
Next to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee girl, beloved so well; Next to the fearless Nedjidee, Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee; Next to ye both, I love the palm, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm; Next to ye both, I love the tree Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three With...
-
“it was our wedding-day A month ago,” dear heart, I hear you say. If months, or years, or ages since have passed, I know not: I have ceased to question Time. I only know that once there pealed a chime Of joyous bells, and then I held you fast, And all stood back, and none my right denied, And...
-
“give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A...
-
From the Desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee! With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are...
-
Ah, moment not to be purchased, Not to be won by prayer, Not by toil to be conquered, But given, lest one despair, By the Gods in wayward kindness, Stay—thou art all too fair! Hour of the dancing measures, Sylph of the dew and rainbow, Let us clutch thy shining hair! For the mist is blown from...