Purananuru 271

The chaste trees, dark-clustered,
blend with the land
that knows no dryness;
the colors on the leaves
mob the eyes.

We've seen those leaves
on jeweled women,
on their mounds
of love.

Now the chaste wreath lies slashed
on the ground, so changed, so mixed
with blood, the vulture snatches it
with its beak,
thinking it raw meat.

We see this too
just because a young man
in love with war

The archivist in us shudders at such cold-
blooded destruction of the word, but since
we're only human, we commit our sins
to the flames. Sauve qui peut; fear makes us bold.

Tanka was bolder: when the weather turned
from fair to frigid, he saw his way clear
to build a sacrificial fire
in which a priceless temple Buddha burned.

(The pretext? Simple: what he sought
was legendary Essence in the ash.
But if it shows up only in the flesh — ?
He grinned and said, Let's burn the lot!)

Believers in the afterlife perform

1.

A Scholar first my Love implor'd,
And then an empty titled Lord;
The Pedant, talk'd in lofty Strains;
Alas! his Lordship wanted Brains:
I list'ned not, to one or t'other,
But strait referr'd them to my Mother.

2.

A Poet next my Love assail'd,
A Lawyer hop'd to have prevail'd;
The Bard too much approv'd himself,
The Lawyer thirsted after Pelf:
I list'ned not, to one or t'other,
But still referr'd them to my Mother.

3.

An Officer, my Heart wou'd storm,
A Miser, sought me too, in Form;

A maiden to the Delphic temple came,
And hid her brows, and at the shrine bent low.
" What wilt thou?" " Fain would I the future know."
" Of two gifts then have one. Choose: Love or Fame?"
" O Sun-God! Laurels grant, a deathless name!
So at my song far nations' tears may flow,
And men remember though from hence I go;
For in my breast I feel the sacred flame."

Years pass. A weeping woman kneels again,
For mercy to the oracle she sues:
" O give me Love! Take back the bay-crown'd lyre!
Life dawns for me; till now I've lived in vain.

With a thousand nights' dream
I have rinsed clear the gentle brow
of my heart's love,
to transplant it
into the heavens.
A fierce bird
knows, and in mimicry
arcs through the midwinter sky.

We who have loved, alas! may not be friends,
Too faint, or yet too fierce, the stifled fire, —
A random spark — and lo! our dead desire
Leaps into flame, as though to make amends
For chill, blank days, and with strange fury rends
The dying embers of Love's funeral pyre.
Electric, charged anew, the living wire
A burning message through our torpor sends.
Could we but pledge, with loyal hearts and eyes,
A friendship worthy of the fair, full past,
Now mutilate, and lost beyond recall,
Then might a Phaenix from its ashes rise

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.
And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
Which he immediately rendered

I do not love you, Dr. Fell ,
But why I cannot tell;
But this I know full well,
I do not love you, Dr. Fell .

L'homme qui ne se trouve point, et ne se trouvera jamais

The Man who feels the dear Disease
Forgets himselfe, neglects to please,
The croud avoids, and seeks the Groves,
And much he thinks, when much he loves,
Press'd with alternate Hope and Fear
Sighs in her Absence, sighs when she is near;
The Gay, the fond, the Fair and young,
Those Trifflers pass unseen along,
To him, a pert insipid throng.
But most he shuns the vain Coquette,
Contemns her false affected Wit,
The Minstrels Sound, the flowing Bowl,

Why art thou, Love, so fair, so young?
Why is that sad sweet music hung,
For ever, on thy gentle tongue?

Why art thou fond? Why art thou fair?
Why sitteth, in thy soft eye, Care?
Why smil'st thou in such sweet despair?

Youth, Beauty fade, — like summer roses:
Sad music sadder love discloses:
Dark Care in darker death reposes!

All 's vain! the rough world careth not
For thee — for me — for our dark lot:
We love, Sweet, but to be forgot!

We love, — and meet the world's sharp scorn:
We live, — to die some common morn,