Chapter II: Part 2

I desire the door-sill of my beloved More than a king's house; I desire the shadow of the wall where her beauty hides More than the Delhi palaces. Why did you wait till spring; Were not my hands already full of red-thorned roses? My heart is yours, So that I know not which heart I hear sighing: Yaquin, Yaquin, Yaquin, foolish Yaquin.

_From the Hindustani of Yaquin (eighteenth century)._

A POEM

Joy fills my eyes, remembering your hair, with tears,
And these tears roll and shine;
Into my thoughts are woven a dark night with raindrops
And the rolling and shining of love songs.

_From the Hindustani of Mir Taqui (eighteenth century)._

FARD

Ever your rose face or black curls are with Shaguil; Because your curls are night and your face is day.

_From the Hindustani of Shaguil (eighteenth century)._

MORTIFICATION

Now that the wind has taught your veil to show your eyes and hair, All the world is bowing down to your dear head; Faith has crept away to die beside the tomb of prayer, And men are kneeling to your hair, and God is dead.

_From the Hindustani of Hatifi (eighteenth century)._

FARD

A love-sick heart dies when the heart is whole, For all the heart's health is to be sick with love.

_From the Hindustani of Miyan Jagnu (eighteenth century)._

_JAPAN_

GRIEF AND THE SLEEVE

Tears in the moonlight, You know why, Have marred the flowers On my rose sleeve. Ask why.

_From the Japanese of Hide-Yoshi._

DRINK SONG

The crows have wakened me By cawing at the moon. I pray that I shall not think of him; I pray so intently That he begins to fill my whole mind. This is getting on my nerves; I wonder if there is any of that wine left.

_Japanese Street Song._

A BOAT COMES IN

Although I shall not see his face For the low riding of the ship, The three armorial oak-leaves on his cloak Will be enough. But what if I make a mistake And call to the wrong man? Or make no sign at all, And it is he?

_Japanese Street Song._

THE OPINION OF MEN

My desires are like the white snows on Fuji That grow but never melt. I am becoming proud of my bad reputation; And the more men say, We cannot understand why she loves him, The less I care. I am sure that in a very short time I shall give myself to him.

_Japanese Street Song._

OLD SCENT OF THE PLUM-TREE

Remembering what passed Under the scent of the plum-tree, I asked the plum-tree for tidings Of that other. Alas ... the cold moon of spring....

_From the Japanese of Fujiwara Ietaka. (1158-1237)._

AN ORANGE SLEEVE

In the fifth month, When orange-trees Fill all the world with scent, I think of the sleeve Of a girl who loved me.

_From the Japanese of Nari-hira._

INVITATION

The chief flower Of the plum-tree of this isle Opens to-night.... Come, singing to the moon, In the third watch.

_From the Japanese of a Courtesan of Nagasaki._

THE CLOCKS OF DEATH

In a life where the clocks Are slow or fast, It is a pleasant thing To die together As we are dying.

_From the Japanese of the Wife of Bes-syo Ko-saburo Naga-haru, (sixteenth century)._

GREEN FOOD FOR A QUEEN

I was gathering Leaves of the Wakana In springtime. Why did the snow fall On my dress?

_From the Japanese of the Mikado Ko-ko Ten-no, (ninth century)._

THE CUSHION

Your arm should only be A spring night's dream; If I accepted it to rest my head upon There would be rumours And no delight.

_From the Japanese of the daughter of Taira-no Tsu-gu-naka._

A SINGLE NIGHT

Was one night, And that a night Without much sleep, Enough to make me love All the life long?

_From the Japanese of the wife of the Mikado Sui-toka In (twelfth century)._

AT A DANCE OF GIRLS

Let the wind's breath Blow in the glades of the clouds Until they close; So that the beauty of these girls May not escape.

_From the Japanese of So-dzyo Hend-zyo._

ALONE ONE NIGHT

This night, Long like the drooping feathers Of the pheasant, The chain of mountains, Shall I sleep alone?

_From the Japanese of Kaik-no Motto-no Hitomaro (seventh and eighth centuries)._

_KAFIRISTAN_

WALKING UP A HILL AT DAWN

Here is the wind in the morning; The kind red face of God Is looking over the hill We are climbing.

To-morrow we are going to marry And work and play together, And laugh together at things Which would not amuse our neighbours.

_Song of Kafiristan._

PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE

Your eyes are black like water-melon pips, Your lips are red like the red flesh of water-melons, Your loins are smooth like smooth-rind water-melons.

You are more beautiful than my favourite among mares, Your buttocks are sleeker and firmer, Like her your movements are on legs of light steel.

Come and sit at my hearth, and I will celebrate your coming; I will choose from the hundred flocks of each a hundred, Passing at the foot of the Himalaya,

The two most silky and most beautiful great sheep. We will go to the temple and sacrifice one of the two To the god Pandu, that you may have many children;

And I will kill the other and roast it whole, My most fair rose-tree serving as a spit. I will ask the prettiest eaters and the prettiest drinkers;

And while they eat and drink greatly for three days, I will wind silver rings upon your arms and feet And hang a chain of river gold about your neck.

_Popular Song of Kafiristan._

_KAZACKS_

YOU DO NOT WANT ME?

You do not want me, Zohrah. Is it because I am maimed? Yet Tamour-leng was maimed, Going on crippled feet, And he conquered the vast of the world.

You do not want me, Zohrah. Is it because I am maimed? Yet I have one arm to fight for you, One arm to crush you to my rough breast, One arm to break men for you.

It was to shield you from the Khargis That I drag this stump in the long days. It has been so with my women; They would have made you a toy for heat.

After their chief with his axe once swinging Cut my left arm, that, severed, bloody, and dead, Yet struggled on the ground trying to guard you, I have had pain for long in my arm that's lost.

Since the silk nets of your grape-lustrous eyes Ensnared this heart that did not try to guard, Ever I have a great pain in my heart that's lost. You do not want me, Zohrah.

_Kazack poem of the Chief Gahuan-Beyg (1850-1885)._

_KOREA_

TEARS

How can a heart play any more with life,
After it has found a woman and known tears?

In vain I shut my windows against the moonlight;
I have estranged sleep.

The flower of her face is growing in the shadow
Among warm and rustling leaves....

I see the sunlight on her house,
I see her curtains of vermilion silk....

Here is the almond-coloured dawn;
And there is dew on the petals of my night flower.

_Lyric of Korea._

THE DREAM

I dreamed that I was touching her eyelids, and I awoke To find her sleepy temples of rose jade For one heart-beat....

Though the moonlight beats upon the sea,
There is no boat.

_Lyric of Korea._

SEPARATION

As water runs in the river, so runs time; And ever my eyes are wasted of her presence.

The red flowers of the second moon were yesterday; To-day the earth has spots of blood, and there are no flowers.

The wild geese were harnessed to the autumn moon; They have come, I heard their crying, and they are gone.

They have passed and given me no message; I only hear the falling, falling noise of white rain.

_Song of Korea._

_KURDISTAN_

PARADISE

Paradise, my darling, know that paradise, The Prophet-given paradise after death, Is far and very mysterious and most high; My habits would be upset in such a place.

Without impiety, I should be mortally weary If I went there alone, without my wife; An ugly crowding of inferior females, What should I do with the houris?

What should I do with those tall loaded fruit-trees, Seeing I could not give the fruit to you? What by the freshness of those blue streams, Seeing my face reflected there alone?

And it might be worse if you came with me, For all of Allah's Chosen would desire you. And if Mahomet threw his handkerchief And took you up and loved you for himself?

Eyes of my eyes, how could I then defend you? I could not be at ease and watch him love you; And if I mutinied against the Prophet, He, being zealous to love you in his peace,

Would rise and send me hurrying Back by the sword-blade thinness of the bridge From paradise to earth, and in the middle Flick me down sideways to the fires of hell.

My skin would cook and be renewed for ever Where murderers were burning and renewing; And evil souls, my only crime being love, Would burn me and annoy me and destroy me.

If I were there and you in paradise, I could not even make my prayer to Allah That in his justice he should give me back My paradise.

Let us love, therefore, on the earth together; Our love is our garden, let us take great care, Whisper and call pet names and kiss each other To live our paradise as long as may be.

_Love Ballad of Kurdistan._

_LAOS_

MISADVENTURE

Ever at the far side of the current The fishes hurl and swim, For pelicans and great birds Watch and go fishing On the bank-side.

No man dare go alone In the dim great forest, But if I were as strong As the green tiger I would go.

The holy swan on the sea Wishes to pass over with his wings, But I think it would be hard To go so far.

If you are still pure, Tell me, darling; If you are no longer Clear like an evening star, You are the heart of a great tree Eaten by insects. Why do you lower your eyes? Why do you not look at me?

When the blue elephant Finds a lotus by the water-side He takes it up and eats it. Lemons are not sweeter than sugar.

If I had the moon at home I would open my house wide To the four winds of the horizon, So that the clouds that surround her Should escape and be shaken away.

_Song of the Love Nights of Laos._

KHAP-SALUNG

Seeing that I adore you, Scarf of golden flowers, Why do you stay unmarried? As the liana at a tree's foot That quivers to wind it round, So do I wait for you. I pray you Do not detest me....

I have come to say farewell. Farewell, scarf; Garden Royal Where none may enter, Gaudy money I may not spend.

_Song of the Love Nights of Laos._

THE HOLY SWAN

Fair journey, O holy swan with gold wings; O holy swan that I love, fair journey! Carry this letter for me to the new land, The place where my lover labours. If it rains fly low beneath the trees, If the sun is hot fly in the forest shadows; If any ask you where you are going Do not answer. You who rise for so long a journey, Avoid the roofs at the hour when the sun is red. Carry this letter to the new land of my lover. If he is faithful, give it to him; If he has forgotten, read it to him only And let the lightning burn it afterwards.

_Song of the Love Nights of Laos._

_MANCHURIA_

FIRE AND LOVE

If you do not want your heart Burnt at a small flame Like a spitted sheep, Fly the love of women. Fire burns what it touches, But love burns from afar.

_Folk Song of Manchuria._

HEARTS OF WOMEN

It is hard for a man to tell The hidden thought in his friend's heart, And the thought in a man's own heart Is a thing darker.

If you have seen a woman's heart Bare to your eyes, Go quickly away and never tell What you have seen there.

_Street Song of Manchuria._

_PERSIA_

TO HIS LOVE INSTEAD OF A PROMISED PICTURE-BOOK

_The greater and the lesser ills:_
He waved his grey hand wearily
Back to the anger of the sea,
Then forward to the blue of hills.

Out from the shattered barquenteen
The black frieze-coated sailors bore
Their dying despot to the shore
And wove a crazy palanquin.

They found a valley where the rain
Had worn the fern-wood to a paste
And tiny streams came down in haste
To eastward of the mountain chain.

And here was handiwork of Cretes,
And olives grew beside a stone,
And one slim phallos stood alone
Blasphemed at by the paroquets.

Hard by a wall of basalt bars
The night came like a settling bird,
And here he wept and slept and stirred
Faintly beneath the turning stars.

Then like a splash of saffron whey
That spills from out a bogwood bowl
Oozed from the mountain clefts the whole
Rich and reluctant light of day.

And when he neither moved nor spoke
And did not heed the morning call,
They laid him underneath the wall
And wrapped him in a purple cloak.

_From the Modern Persian._

TOO SHORT A NIGHT

Lily of Streams lay by my side last night And to my prayers gave answers of delight; Day came before our fairy-tale was finished, Because the tale was long, not short the night.

_From the Persian of Abu-Said (978-1062)._

THE ROSES

Roses are a wandering scent from heaven. Rose-seller, why do you sell your roses? For silver? But with the silver from your roses What can you buy so precious as your roses?

_From the Persian of Abu-Yshac (middle of the tenth century)._

I ASKED MY LOVE

I asked my love: "Why do you make yourself so beautiful?" "To please myself. I am the eye, the mirror, and the loveliness; The loved one and the lover and the love."

_From the Persian of Abu-Said (978-1062)._

A REQUEST

When I am cold and undesirous and my lids lie dead, Come to watch by the body that loved you and say: This is _Rondagui_, whom I killed and my heart regrets for ever.

_From the Persian of Rondagui (tenth century)._

SEE YOU HAVE DANCERS

See you have dancers and wine and a girl like one of the angels
(If they exist),
And find a clear stream singing near its birth and a bed of moss
(If moss exists),
For loving and singing to the dancers and drinking and forgetting hell
(If hell exists),
Because this is a pastime better than paradise
(If paradise exists).

_From the Persian of Omar Khayyam (eleventh century)._

_SIAM_

THE SIGHING HEART

I made search for you all my life, and when I found you There came a trouble on me, So that it seemed my blood escaped And my life ran back from me And my heart slipped into you. It seems, also, that you are the moon And that I am at the top of a tree. If I had wings I would spread them as far as you, Dear bud, that will not open Though the kisses of the holy bird knock at your petal door.

_Song of Siam._

_SYRIA_

HANDING OVER THE GUN

Kill me if you will not love me.
Here are flints;
Ram down the heavy bullet, little leopard,
On the black powder.

Only you must not shoot me through the head,
Nor touch my heart;
Because my head is full of the ways of you
And my heart is dead.

_Song of Syria._

_TATARS_

HONEY

Young man, If you try to eat honey On the blade of a knife, You will cut yourself.

If you try to taste honey On the kiss of a woman, Taste with the lips only, If not, young man, You will bite your own heart.

_Song of the Tatars._

_THIBET_

THE LOVE OF THE ARCHER PRINCE

The Khan.

The son of the Khan.

The love of the son of the Khan.

The veil of the love of the son of the Khan.

The clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love of the son of
the Khan.

The buds of fire that scented the clear breeze that lifted the
veil of the love of the son of the Khan.

The Archer Prince whose love kissed the buds of fire that
scented the clear breeze that lifted the veil of the love
of the son of the Khan.

And the girl married the Archer Prince whose love kissed the
buds of fire that scented the clear breeze that lifted the
veil of the love of the son of the Khan.

_Street Song of Thibet._

_TURKESTAN_

DISTICH

Your face upon a drop of purple wine Shows like my soul poised on a bead of blood.

_From the Turkic of Hussein Baikrani._

THINGS SEEN IN A BATTLE

Clear diamond heart, I have been hunting death Among the swords.

But death abhors my shadow, And I come back Wounded with memories.

Your eyes, For steel is amorous of steel And there are bright blue sparks.

Your lips, I see great bloody roses Cut in white dead breasts.

Your bed, For I see wrestling bodies Under the evening star.

_From the Turkic._

HUNTER'S SONG

Not a stone from my black sling Ever misses anything, But the arrows of your eye Surer shoot and faster fly.

Not one creature that I hit Lingers on to know of it, But the game that falls to love Lives and lingers long enough.

_From the Turkic._

_TURKEY_

THE BATH

My dreams are bubbles of cool light, Sunbeams mingled in the light green Waters of your bath.

Through fretted spaces in the olive wood My love adventures with the white sun.

I dive into the ice-coloured shadows Where the water is like light blue flowers Dancing on mirrors of silver.

The sun rolls under the waters of your bath Like the body of a strong swimmer.

And now you cool your feet, Which have the look of apple flowers, Under the water on the oval marble Coloured like yellow roses.

Your scarlet nipples Waver under the green kisses of the water, Flowers drowned in a mountain stream.

_From the Modern Turkish._

DISTICH

Lions tremble at my claws; And I at a gazelle with eyes.

_From the Turkish of Sultan Selim I._

A PROVERB

Before you love, Learn to run through snow Leaving no footprint.

_From the Turkish._

ENVOY IN AUTUMN

Here are the doleful rains, And one would say the sky is weeping The death of the tolerable weather.

Tedium cloaks the wit like a veil of clouds And we sit down indoors.

Now is the time for poetry coloured with summer. Let it fall on the white paper As ripe flowers fall from a perfect tree.

I will dip down my lips into my cup Each time I wet my brush.

And keep my thoughts from wandering as smoke wanders, For time escapes away from you and me Quicker than birds.

_From the Chinese of Tu Fu (712-770)._

TRANSLATOR'S NOTES

THE GARDEN OF BRIGHT WATERS

I am hoping that some readers will look on this collection primarily as a book of poems. The finding and selection of material and the shaping of the verses is my principal part in it. Most of the songs have been written from, or by comparing, the literal translations of French and Italian scholars, checked wherever possible by my own knowledge. When my first and very great debt to these has been stated, there remains my debt to the late John Duncan, to Mr. J. Wing, and to a friend, a distinguished writer both in Persian and Turkish, who wishes to remain unnamed. The kindness of these writers lies in trusting their work to my translation and helping me in that task. My book also owes much to suggestions prompted by the wide learning of Mr. L. Cranmer-Byng. My final debt is to him and to another generous critic. I have arranged my poems in the alphabetical order of their countries, and added short notes wherever I considered them necessary, at the instance of some kindly reviewers of an earlier book, which was not so arranged and provided.

AFGHANISTAN

SIKANDER, Alexander the Great.

SHALIBAGH, the notable garden of Shalimar in Lahore, planted by Shah Jahan in 1637.

ABDEL QADIR GILANI, Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani, founder of the Qadirite order of the Dervishes, twelfth century.

ANNAM

K'IEN NIÜ and CHIK NÜ: the legend of these two stars comes from China and is told in Japan. Readers are referred to that section of Mr. L. Cranmer-Byng's _A Lute of Jade_ which deals delightfully with Po-Chü-i; and to Lafcadio Hearn's _Romance of the Milky Way._

ARABIC

ANTAR, the hero Antar Ebn Cheddad Ebn Amr Corad, who lived in the late sixth and early seventh centuries, owes his European reputation to _Siret Antar_, the Adventures of Antar, or more exactly the Conduct of Antar, written by Abul-Moyyed "El Antari" in the twelfth century. This book tells of the fighter's feats in war and of his love for his cousin Abla; and these are the themes of Antar's own poems.

AN ESCAPE: in this poem Abu Nuas, the Court poet, tells of an adventure of the Khalif Haroun. There is a story that the Khalif, being set back by the answer of his lady, called his poets in the morning and bade them write a poem round the phrase, "Words of a night to bring the day." All were rewarded for their work save Abu Nuas; and he was condemned to death for spying through keyholes on his master. But after he had proved an alibi, he also was rewarded.

"JOHN DUNCAN was a lowland Scot, who lived in Edinburgh until he was between twenty and twenty-five years old. He was educated at one of the Scots schools, and knew his way about the University if he was not actually a student there. He certainly had enough money to live on. A love affair in which he must have been infamously treated caused him to leave Scotland. Within a year or two he was an established member of a small tribe of nomadic Arabs, and eventually he became in speech and appearance one of them, living their lazy, pastoral life and travelling up and down with them the whole line of the southwest coast of the Persian Gulf. Before his death, which occurred last year, at the age of forty-two or forty-three, he had become acquainted with the whole of habitable Arabia.

"Let Mr. Mathers take up the story as he told it to me: 'He married an Arab, and all his forty-odd poems are addressed to her. I saw only a snapshot of her, which showed her to be beautiful. In her he certainly found healing for the wound his abnormally fiery and sensitive nature had taken from the first woman. She pulled together an intellect rather easily subdued. I only knew him after her death (his reason for travelling to this country), and a dazed, utterly unpractical and uninterested habit of mind, which alternated with his brilliance of speech and to a less degree of thought, was probably a reversion to the psychic state which his marriage had cured.

"'Like so many to whom life has at one time given a paralysing shock, Duncan was extremely reticent, save when he could lead the conversation, and be confidential at points of his own choosing; and he was not an easy man to question. The disappointment which had driven him from his country certainly made him more bitter against the British than any other man I have listened to. All his considerable wit and the natural acid of his thought were directed against our ideas, institutions, and beliefs.

"'His one sane enthusiasm, English lyric verse, of whose depths, main-stream, and back-waters his knowledge was profound, formed one-half of his conversation.

"'His English in talking was rich and varied, and it was an ironic caprice which made him refuse to write in that language. I doubt, though, whether he would have composed with ease in any tongue, for he found it hard to concentrate, and his small stock of verse was the outcome of ten years of unoccupied life. He approved, rather mockingly, my promise to try to find an English equivalent for some of them; and I think I have copies of all he wrote.

"'One not acquainted with the man might find them rather hard to render, as, had he been an Arab actually, still he would have been the most unconventional of poets, neglecting form and the literary language.'"

My most cordial thanks are due to The Bookworm, of the _Weekly Dispatch_, for permission to make this long quotation from an article headed, "The Strange Story of John Duncan, the Arab-Scot," which appeared over his _nom de plume_ in the issue of that newspaper for March 30, 1919.

CHINA

J. WING: I have already translated three of this writer's poems: "English Girl," "Climbing after Nectarines," and "Being together at Night." These may be found in _Coloured Stars_. Mr. Wing is an American-born Chinese and practises the profession of a valet.

JAPAN

THE CLOCKS OF DEATH: this poem is a _zi-sei_, or lyric made at the point of death. Naga-Haru committed suicide after an unsuccessful defence of the strong castle Mi-Ki against Hashiba Hideyoshi in 1580. His wife followed his example, composing this poem as she died.

WAKANA, the turnip cabbage, whose leaves are eaten in early spring. The Mikado is lamenting a sudden realisation that he is too old for his love.

THE CUSHION: the poetess, daughter of Tsu-gu-naka, lord of Su-Wo, while at a party, asked for a cushion. A certain Iye-tada offered his arm for her to lean her head against, and she answered with these lines.

STREET SONGS: the three poems which I have so called are written in everyday colloquial Japanese. The words of the old language, which are the ornament of literary verse, are almost entirely excluded from these songs. In them one finds a superabundance of auxiliaries, and the presence of these marks a clear line between the literary and the folk-idiom.

KAZACKS

TAMOUR-LENG, Tamerlane. The facts of "You Do Not Want Me" are historical; but it should be added that Gahuan-Beyg succeeded in overcoming Zohrah's indifference, and that a few months after their marriage he beheaded her with his own hand for speaking to another man.

LAOS

THE LOVE NIGHTS OF LAOS, "Wan-Pak" Nights, at the eighth evening of the waxing or waning of the moon, when even Buddha has no fault to find with love-making in the thickets. Songs, of which I have translated three, are sung on these nights to the accompaniments of the "Khane," a pan-pipe of seven flutes; some being reserved for the singing of the wandering bands of girls, and others for answer by the youths.

PERSIA

THE ROSES, this rubai made Abu Yshac famous. He died at least twenty years before the birth of Omar Khayyam. Readers will have been struck by the similarity of idea in "The Roses" and in two lines in Fitzgerald's Rubaiyat:

I often wonder what the vintners buy
One-half so precious as the goods they sell.

THIBET

THE LOVE OF THE ARCHER PRINCE: this form of poem, with one rhyme and repetitive and increasing lines, is a familiar one in Thibet; and thence it has entered Kafiristan and become a popular manner of composition Archipelago. English readers will remember an analogous poem, "The House that Jack built."