Latter Cloud

Where palaces in much may rival thee--Their ladies gay, thy lightning's dazzling powers--Symphonic drums, thy thunder's melody--Their bright mosaic floors, thy silver showers--Thy rainbow, paintings, and thy height, cloud-licking towers.

Where the autumn lotus in dear fingers shines,And lodh-flowers' April dust on faces rare,Spring amaranth with winter jasmine twinesIn women's braids, and summer siris fair,The rainy madder in the parting of their hair.

Where men with maids whose charm no blemish marsClimb to the open crystal balconyInlaid with flower-like sparkling of the stars,And drink the love-wine from the wishing-tree,And listen to the drums' deep-thundering dignity.

Where maidens whom the gods would gladly wedAre fanned by breezes cool with Ganges' sprayIn shadows that the trees of heaven spread;In golden sands at hunt-the-pearl they play,Bury their little fists, and draw them void away.

Where lovers' passion-trembling fingers clingTo silken robes whose sashes flutter wide,The knots undone; and red-lipped women fling,Silly with shame, their rouge from side to side.Hoping in vain the flash of jewelled lamps to hide.

Where, brought to balconies' palatial topsBy ever-blowing guides, were clouds beforeLike thee who spotted paintings with their drops;Then, touched with guilty fear, were seen no more,But scattered smoke-like through the lattice' grated door.

Where from the moonstones hung in nets of threadGreat drops of water trickle in the night--When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled--To ease the languors of the women's plightWho lie relaxed and tired in love's embraces tight.

Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sungOf the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayedAt sunrise by the fallen flowers from curlsThat fluttered as they stole along afraid,By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

Here the god of love is not seen, because ofthe presence of his great enemy, Shiva.Yet his absence is not severely felt.

Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,Since Shiva's friendship decks Kubera's reign;His task is done by clever maids, for lo!Their frowning missile glances, darting plainAt lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.For the Mine of Sentiment declares:"Women everywhere have four kinds ofornaments--hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes,cosmetics; anything else is local."

Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhanceThe loveliness of maidens young and sweet:Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

There, northward from the master's palace, seeOur home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;And near it grows a little coral-tree,Bending 'neath many a blossom's clustered star,Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

A pool is near, to which an emerald stairLeads down, with blooming lotuses of goldWhose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,The wistful swans are glad when they beholdThine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hillRound which the golden plantain-hedges fit;She loves the spot; and while I marvel stillAt thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flitAbout thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.

The ashoka-tree, with sweetly dancing lines,The favourite bakul-tree, are near the bowerOf amaranth-engirdled jasmine-vines;Like me, they wait to feel the winning powerOf her persuasion, ere they blossom into flower.

A golden pole is set between the pair,With crystal perch above its emerald bandsAs green as young bamboo; at sunset thereThy friend, the blue-necked peacock, rises, stands,And dances when she claps her bracelet-tinkling hands.

These are the signs--recall them o'er and o'er,My clever friend--by which the house is known,And the Conch and Lotus painted by the door:Alas! when I am far, the charm is gone--The lotus' loveliness is lost with set of sun.

Small as the elephant cub thou must becomeFor easy entrance; rest where gems enhanceThe glory of the hill beside my home,And peep into the house with lightning-glance,But make its brightness dim as fireflies' twinkling dance.

The supremest woman from God's workshop gone--Young, slender; little teeth and red, red lips,Slight waist and gentle eyes of timid fawn,An idly graceful movement, generous hips,Fair bosom into which the sloping shoulder slips--

Like a bird that mourns her absent mate anewPassing these heavy days in longings keen,My girlish wife whose words are sweet and few,My second life, shall there of thee be seen--But changed like winter-blighted lotus-blooms, I ween.

Her eyes are swol'n with tears that stream unchidden;Her lips turn pale with sorrow's burning sighs;The face that rests upon her hand is hiddenBy hanging curls, as when the glory diesOf the suffering moon pursued by thee through nightly skies.

The passion of love passes through ten stages,eight of which are suggested in this stanzaand the stanzas which follow. The firststage is not indicated; it is called Exchangeof Glances.

Thou first wilt see her when she seeks reliefIn worship; or, half fancying, half recalling,She draws mine image worn by absent grief;Or asks the caged, sweetly-singing starling:"Do you remember, dear, our lord? You were his darling."

Or holds a lute on her neglected skirt,And tries to sing of me, and tries in vain;For she dries the tear-wet string with hands inert,And e'er begins, and e'er forgets again,Though she herself composed it once, the loving strain.

Or counts the months of absence yet remainingWith flowers laid near the threshold on the floor,Or tastes the bliss of hours when love was gainingThe memories recollected o'er and o'er--woman's comforts when her lonely heart is sore.

Such daytime labours doubtless ease the acheWhich doubly hurts her in the helpless dark;With news from me a keener joy to wake,Stand by her window in the night, and markMy sleepless darling on her pallet hard and stark.

Resting one side upon that widowed bed,Like the slender moon upon the Eastern height,So slender she, now worn with anguish dread,Passing with stifling tears the long, sad nightWhich, spent in love with me, seemed but a moment's flight.

Here is suggested the sixth stage: Loss ofInterest in Ordinary Pleasures.

On the cool, sweet moon that through the lattice flashesShe looks with the old delight, then turns awayAnd veils her eyes with water-weighted lashes,Sad as the flower that blooms in sunlight gay,But cannot wake nor slumber on a cloudy day.

Here is suggested the seventh stage: Loss ofYouthful Bashfulness.

One unanointed curl still frets her cheekWhen tossed by sighs that burn her blossom-lip;And still she yearns, and still her yearnings seekThat we might be united though in sleep--Ah! Happy dreams come not to brides that ever weep.

Here is suggested the eighth stage: Absent-mindedness.For if she were not absent-minded,she would arrange the braid soas not to be annoyed by it.

Her single tight-bound braid she pushes oft--With a hand uncared for in her lonely madness--So rough it seems, from the cheek that is so soft:That braid ungarlanded since the first day's sadness,Which I shall loose again when troubles end in gladness.

Here is suggested the ninth stage: Prostration.The tenth stage, Death, is not suggested.

The delicate body, weak and suffering,Quite unadorned and tossing to and froIn oft-renewing wretchedness, will wringEven from thee a raindrop-tear, I know--Soft breasts like thine are pitiful to others' woe.

I know her bosom full of love for me,And therefore fancy how her soul doth grieveIn this our first divorce; it cannot beSelf-flattery that idle boastings weave--Soon shalt thou see it all, and seeing, shalt believe.

Her hanging hair prevents the twinkling shineOf fawn-eyes that forget their glances sly,Lost to the friendly aid of rouge and wine--Yet the eyelids quiver when thou drawest nighAs water-lilies do when fish go scurrying by.

And limbs that thrill to thee thy welcome prove,Limbs fair as stems in some rich plantain-bower,No longer showing marks of my rough love,Robbed of their cooling pearls by fatal power,The limbs which I was wont to soothe in passion's hour.

But if she should be lost in happy sleep,Wait, bear with her, grant her but three hours' grace,And thunder not, O cloud, but let her keepThe dreaming vision of her lover's face--Loose not too soon the imagined knot of that embrace.

As thou wouldst wake the jasmine's budding wonder,Wake her with breezes blowing mistily;Conceal thy lightnings, and with words of thunderSpeak boldly, though she answer haughtilyWith eyes that fasten on the lattice and on thee.

"Thou art no widow; for thy husband's friendIs come to tell thee what himself did say--A cloud with low, sweet thunder-tones that sendAll weary wanderers hastening on their way,Eager to loose the braids of wives that lonely stay."

Say this, and she will welcome thee indeed,Sweet friend, with a yearning heart's tumultuous beatingAnd joy-uplifted eyes; and she will heedThe after message: such a friendly greetingIs hardly less to woman's heart than lovers' meeting.

Thus too, my king, I pray of thee to speak,Remembering kindness is its own reward;"Thy lover lives, and from the holy peakAsks if these absent days good health afford--Those born to pain must ever use this opening word.

With body worn as thine, with pain as deep,With tears and ceaseless longings answering thine,With sighs more burning than the sighs that keepThy lips ascorch--doomed far from thee to pine,He too doth weave the fancies that thy soul entwine.

He used to love, when women friends were near,To whisper things he might have said aloudThat he might touch thy face and kiss thine ear;Unheard and even unseen, no longer proud,He now must send this yearning message by a cloud.

According to the treatise called "VirtuesBanner," a lover has four solaces in separation:first, looking at objects that remindhim of her he loves;

'I see thy limbs in graceful-creeping vines,Thy glances in the eyes of gentle deer,Thine eyebrows in the ripple's dancing lines,Thy locks in plumes, thy face in moonlight clear--Ah, jealous! But the whole sweet image is not here.

And when I paint that loving jealousyWith chalk upon the rock, and my caressAs at thy feet I lie, I cannot seeThrough tears that to mine eyes unbidden press--So stern a fate denies a painted happiness.

And when I toss mine arms to clasp thee tight,Mine own though but in visions of a dream--They who behold the oft-repeated sight,The kind divinities of wood and stream,Let fall great pearly tears that on the blossoms gleam.

Himalaya's breeze blows gently from the north,Unsheathing twigs upon the deodarAnd sweet with sap that it entices forth--I embrace it lovingly; it came so far,Perhaps it touched thee first, my life's unchanging star!

Oh, might the long, long night seem short to me!Oh, might the day his hourly tortures hide!Such longings for the things that cannot be,Consume my helpless heart, sweet-glancing bride,In burning agonies of absence from thy side.

Yet much reflection, dearest, makes me strong,Strong with an inner strength; nor shouldst thou feelDespair at what has come to us of wrong;Who has unending woe or lasting weal?Our fates move up and down upon a circling wheel.

and to remember that the curse has itsappointed end, when the rainy season isover and the year of exile fulfilled. Vishnuspends the rainy months in sleep upon theback of the cosmic serpent Shesha.

When Vishnu rises from his serpent bedThe curse is ended; close thine eyelids tightAnd wait till only four months more are sped;Then we shall taste each long-desired delightThrough nights that the full autumn moon illumines bright.

Then is added a secret which, as it could notpossibly be known to a third person,assures her that the cloud is a truemessenger.

And one thing more: thou layest once asleep,Clasping my neck, then wakening with a scream;And when I wondered why, thou couldst but weepA while, and then a smile began to beam:"Rogue! Rogue! I saw thee with another girl in dream."

This memory shows me cheerful, gentle wife;Then let no gossip thy suspicions move:They say the affections strangely forfeit lifeIn separation, but in truth they proveToward the absent dear, a growing bulk of tenderest love.'"

Console her patient heart, to breaking fullIn our first separation; having spoken,Fly from the mountain ploughed by Shiva's bull;Make strong with message and with tender tokenMy life, so easily, like morning jasmines, broken.

I hope, sweet friend, thou grantest all my suit,Nor read refusal in thy solemn air;When thirsty birds complain, thou givest muteThe rain from heaven: such simple hearts are rare,Whose only answer is fulfilment of the prayer.

Thus, though I pray unworthy, answer meFor friendship's sake, or pity's, magnifiedBy the sight of my distress; then wander freeIn rainy loveliness, and ne'er abideOne moment's separation from thy lightning bride.