Tho' Asia sent for my content Her richest argosies, Those would I spurn, and bid return, If that should give her ease.
With equal heart I'd watch depart Each spicèd sail from sight, Sans bitterness, desiring less Great gear than her delight.
Though Kings made swift with many a gift My proven sword to hire, I would not go nor serve 'em so, Except at her desire.
With even mind, I'd put behind Adventure and acclaim, And clean give o'er, esteeming more Her favour than my fame.
Yet such am I, yea such am I-- Sore bond and freest free, The Law that sways my lady's ways Is mystery to me!
Our sister sayeth such and such. And we must bow to her behests; Our sister toileth overmuch, Our little maid that hath no breasts.
A field untilled, a web unwove, A flower withheld from sun or bee, An alien in the courts of Love, And--teacher unto such as we!
We love her, but we laugh the while, We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter; Our sister hath no time to smile, She knows not what must follow after.
Wind of the South, arise and blow, From beds of spice thy locks shake free; Breathe on her heart that she may know, Breathe on her eyes that she may see.
Alas! we vex her with our mirth, And maze her with most tender scorn, Who stands beside the gates of Birth, Herself a child--a child unborn!
_Our sister sayeth such and such, And we must bow to her behests; Our sister toileth overmuch, Our little maid that hath no breasts._
Alone upon the housetops to the North I turn and watch the lightning in the sky-- The glamour of thy footsteps in the North. _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die._
Below my feet the still bazar is laid-- Far, far below the weary camels lie-- The camels and the captives of thy raid. _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_
My father's wife is old and harsh with years, And drudge of all my father's house am I-- My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears. _Come back to me. Beloved, or I die!_
And they were stronger hands than mine That digged the Ruby from the earth-- More cunning brains that made it worth The large desire of a king, And stouter hearts that through the brine Went down the perfect Pearl to bring.
Lo, I have wrought in common clay Rude figures of a rough-hewn race, Since pearls strew not the market-place In this my town of banishment, Where with the shifting dust I play, And eat the bread of discontent.