I WAS to wed young Fatima, As pure as April's snowdrops are, In whose love lay hid my crooked life, As in its sheath my scimitar. Among the hot pomegranate boughs, At sunset, here alone we sat. To call back something from that hour I'd give away my Caliphat. She broke her song to gaze at me: Her lips she leaned my lips above... "Why art thou silent all this while, Lord of my life, and of my love?" @3"Silent I am, young Fatima, For silent is my soul in me, And language will not help the want Of that which cannot ever be."@1 "But wherefore is thy spirit sad, My lord, my love, my life?"...she said. @3"Because thy face is wondrous like The face of one I knew, that's dead."@1 "Ah cruel, cruel," cried Fatima, "That I should not possess the past! What woman's lips first kissed the lips Where my kiss lived and lingered last? "And she that's dead was loved by thee, That so her memory moves thee yet?... Thy face grows cold and white, as looks The moon o'er yonder minaret!" @3"Ay, Fatima! I loved her well, With all of love's and life's despair, Or else I had not strangled her, That night, in her own fatal hair."@1 | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE UNDERGRADUATE KILLED IN BATTLE; OXFORD, 1915 by GEORGE SANTAYANA OF THE MANNER OF ADDRESSING CLOUDS by WALLACE STEVENS LINES ADAPTED TO A FAVOURITE MILITARY AIR by JAMES HAY BEATTIE THE ROUNDHOUSE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET PSALM 2 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE LULLABY by VIRGINIA FRAZER BOYLE THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT by JOHN BURGOYNE ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY by ROBERT BURNS |