The champak showers its perfume from the trees; The lotus petals athrill with the breeze, The pellucid pool a magic mirror for beauty, And the faun-breeze pipes in Rasha measure, for Thee. Dance, my Radha! Thy lac-dyed feet, tiny red birds Free, though caged by thy will, like the bard's Songs chained to the ivory throne of Poesy, That with delight they bear, like thy feet, thy golden body — Dance of love that is born not to live. Trip, trip, O lotus feet! Let them weave, weave a dream That will outmatch the march of eternity. Who wants eternity? When death's fantasy, That dwells in thy smile, in the artistry Of thy arms, thy snake-black hair, That chides and laughs to the limpid air? Daughter of mirth, Merry mover of man's heart, Songstress of heaven on earth, For one moment, dance upon my heart. Oh! It keeps time, though not knowing how — With thine anklets ringing, now loud, now low, Again so fast. Why so fast? Are they breaking, as my heart? Cease not dancing, though death is at my door! Stop not laughing, though I hear no more! Let thine eyes twinkle, shine without end; God's face they mirror, that makes death wend His way afar, far away from thee With the moon's setting as the tide of the sea. Yet I die, die — to live: under the champak tree, Where the breeze pipes in Rasha measure for thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE BEING by HAYDEN CARRUTH PARAGRAPHS: 15 by HAYDEN CARRUTH MOTHERHOOD by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ITALIAN PICTURES: THE COSTA SAN GIORGIO by MINA LOY BRUTUS LIVES AGAIN IN BOOTH by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALONZO CHURCHILL by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |