Classic Poem

For when the weary night had worn away
In these vain fears, and the clear morning broke,
Lo, Krishna! lo, the longed-for of her soul
Came too!—in the glad light he came, and bent
His knee, and clasped his hands; on his dumb lips
Fear, wonder, joy, passion, and reverence
Strove for the trembling words, and Radha knew
Peace won for him and her; yet none the less
A little time she chided him, and sang:

Krishna!—then thou hast found me!—and thine eyes
Heavy and sad and stained, as if with weeping!
Ah! is it not that those, which were thy prize,
So radiant seemed that all night thou wert keeping
Vigils of tender wooing?—have thy Love!
Here is no place for vows broken in making;
Thou Lotus-eyed! thou soul for whom I strove!
Go! ere I listen, my just mind forsaking.

Krishna! my Krishna with the woodland-wreath!
Return, or I shall soften as I blame;
The while thy very lips are dark to the teeth
With dye that from her lids and lashes came,
Left on the mouth I touched. Fair traitor! go!
Say not they darkened, lacking food and sleep
Long waiting for my face; I turn it—so—
Go! ere I half believe thee, pleading deep;

But wilt thou plead, when, like a love-verse printed
On the smooth polish of an emerald,
I see the marks she stamped, the kisses dinted
Large-lettered, by her lips? thy speech withheld
Speaks all too plainly; go,—abide thy choice!
If thou dost stay, I shall more greatly grieve thee;
Not records of her victory?—peace, dear voice!
Hence with that godlike brow, lest I believe thee.

For dar'st thou feign the saffron on thy bosom
Was not implanted in disloyal embrace?
Or that this many-coloured love-tree blossom
Shone not, but yesternight, above her face?
Comest thou here, so late, to be forgiven,
O thou, in whose eyes Truth was made to live?
O thou, so worthy else of grace and heaven?
O thou, so nearly won? Ere I forgive,

Go, Krishna! go!—lest I should think, unwise,
Thy heart not false, as thy long lingering seems,
Lest, seeing myself so imaged in thine eyes,
I shame the name of Pity—turn to dreams
The sacred sound of vows; make Virtue grudge
Her praise to Mercy, calling thy sin slight;
Go therefore, dear offender! go! thy Judge
Had best not see thee to give sentence right.

But may he grant us peace at last and bliss
Who heard—and smiled to hear,—delays like this,
Delays that dallied with a dream come true,
Fond wilful angers; for the maid laughed too
To see, as Radha ended, her hand take
His dark robe for her veil, and Krishna make
The word she spoke for parting kindliest sign
He should not go, but stay. O grace divine,
Be ours too! Jayadev, the Poet of love,
Prays it from Hari, lordliest above.