X

He, suddenly and very earnestly:

Perhaps we lived in the days Of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid; And loved, as the story says Did the Sultan’s favorite one And the Persian Emperor’s son, Ali ben Bekkar, he Of the Kisra dynasty.

Do you know the story?--Well, You were Haroun’s Sultana. When night on the palace fell, A slave, through a secret door,-- Low-arched on the Tigris’ shore,-- By a hidden winding stair Brought me to your bower there.

Then there was laughter and mirth, And feasting and singing together, In a chamber of wonderful worth; In a chamber vaulted high On columns of ivory; Its dome, like the irised skies, Mooned over with peacock eyes; Its curtains and furniture, Damask and juniper.

Ten slave girls--so many blooms-- Stand, holding tamarisk torches, Silk-clad from the Irak looms; Ten handmaidens serve the feast, Each maid like a star in the east; Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune, Wait, each like the Ramadan moon.

For you, in a stuff of Merv Blue-clad, unveiled and jeweled, No metaphor made may serve: Scarved deep with your raven hair, The jewels like fireflies there-- Blossom and moon and star, The Lady Shemsennehar.

The zone that girdles your waist Would ransom a Prince and Emeer; In your coronet’s gold enchased, And your bracelet’s twisted bar, Burn rubies of Istakhar; And pearls of the Jamshid race Hang looped on your bosom’s lace.

You stand like the letter I; Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkle Black stars in a rosy sky; Mouth, like a cloven peach, Sweet with your smiling speech; Cheeks, that the blood presumes To make pomegranate blooms.

With roses of Rocknabad, Hyacinths of Bokhara,-- Creamily cool and clad In gauze,--girls scatter the floor From pillar to cedarn door. Then, a pomegranate bloom in each ear, Come the dancing-girls of Kashmeer.

Kohl in their eyes, down the room,-- That opaline casting-bottles Have showered with rose-perfume,-- They glitter and drift and swoon To the dulcimer’s languishing tune; In the liquid light like stars And moons and nenuphars.

Carbuncles, tragacanth-red, Smoulder in armlet and anklet: Gleaming on breast and on head, Bangles of coins, that are angled, Tinkle: and veils, that are spangled, Flutter from coiffure and wrist Like a star-bewildered mist.

Each dancing-girl is a flower Of the Tuba from vales of El Liwa.-- How the bronzen censers glower! And scents of ambergris pour, And of myrrh, brought out of Lahore, And of musk of Khoten! how good Is the scent of the sandalwood!

A lutanist smites her lute, Sings loves of Mejnoon and Leila:-- Her voice is an Houri flute;-- While the fragrant flambeaux wave, Barbaric, o’er free and slave, O’er fabrics and bezels of gems And roses in anadems.

Sherbets in ewers of gold, Fruits in salvers carnelian; Flagons of grotesque mold, Made of a sapphire glass, Brimmed with wine of Shirâz; Shaddock and melon and grape On plate of an antique shape.

Vases of frosted rose, Of alabaster graven, Filled with the mountain snows; Goblets of mother-of-pearl, One filigree silver-swirl; Vessels of gold foamed up With spray of spar on the cup.

Then a slave bursts in with a cry: “The eunuchs! the Khalif’s eunuchs!-- With scimitars bared draw nigh! Wesif and Afif and he, Chief of the hideous three, Mesrour!--the Sultan ’s seen ’Mid a hundred weapons’ sheen!”

Did we part when we heard this?--No! It seems that my soul remembers How I clasped and kissed you, so.... When they came they found us--dead, On the flowers our blood dyed red; Our lips together, and The dagger in my hand.