Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/117

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Scheherazade!Scheherazade!
The cosmos flowers, my Dove,Are as thine enticing eyes, and the slender grace of their stemsThy languid body that leans and sways and allures,Weary of telling thy tales and glad of illicit love,Scheherazade, soul of the cosmos flower!
Behold, in thy chamber, above the fountain fall,The hidden silver fingers of women sound on lutes,Chanting from latticed recessesSurâhs out of Al Koran, the Wisdom of God;Thy companions, in blue trousers,One by one steal away to hidden roomsWhere slaves or lovers await to embrace them all night long;And at thy command the glistening negroes come,Bare of breast, and turbanned in white, with traysOf coloured sherbets, and dates, and lemons, and sweets,And a eunuch walks at their head,Grave and useless to thee, O Moon, for love, whose masterIs hunting to-day the lion, but I, O Delight,Thy slave, the Gardener's Son, in blue and goldLie beside thee upon the tiger skins,Eager for love and knowing to-morrow I die.
Scheherazade!Scheherazade!
Fate is fate, O My Soul!Thy moon-like eyes, thy thin, sweet eyebrows, the breastsHid and revealed by thy silken vests, the alluringMouth, the tapering nails, and the slippered feet—Save only to-day are dust, but the cosmos flower

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