My baby has a father and a mother,
Rich little baby!
Fatherless, motherless, I know another
Forlorn as may be:
Poor little baby!
202
My Eye is fuller than my vase—
Her Cargo—is of Dew—
And still—my Heart—my Eye outweighs—
East India—for you!
Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove,
To keep my Lamp in strongly strove;
But Romanelli was so stout,
He beat all three, and blew it out.
Oct. 1810.
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
My darling, why should you poach on fish
My darling understand this truth
Those, who deavour the living
To nourish their own lives
Would feed on the poison of sin !
On my burning chest I suffer the monsoon's first showers,
across the film of blood on my eyes a blue light spreads
and in my flesh-marrow-skin the black birds flash
their emerald wings.
Night is growing dark and deep.
I see you go to sleep
leaving me alone awake.
I will pass the night this way for your sake
for your love,
my blue-eyed dove.
My beloved (Posh-a-mal) is but two and a half petals;
lo, the gay love goes out to frolic.
Go ye my friend, fetch my lover here, A Jasmine,
I have woven garlands for him
My beard grows down to my toes,
I never wears no clothes,
I wraps my hair
Around my bare,
And down the road I goes.
What -- write my name!
How vain the feeble trust,
To be remembered
When the hand is dust --
Grieve rather that the talents freely given
Were used for earth -- not treasured up for Heaven!
