  Under the Indian stars, Mumtaz Mahal, I am sitting, Watching them wind their silent way Over your wistful Tomb; Watching the crescent prow Of the moon among them flitting, Fair as the shallop that bore your soul To Paradise's Room. Under the Indian stars, With palm and peepul about me, With dome and kiosk and minaret Mounting against the sky, I seem to see your face In all the fairness without me; To hear your lover's cry. Under the Indian stars I look for your Jasmine Tower, Along the River whose barren bed Lies gray beneath the moon. And thro its magic doors You seem like a spirit flower, Wandering back from Allah's bourne To seek for some lost boon. Under the Indian stars I see you softly moving, Among your jewel-lit maidens there, A sweet and ghostly queen, And the scent of attar flung In your marble font seems proving That passion never can die from love, If truly love has been. Under the Indian stars He comes, "the Shadow of Allah," Jehan, the lord of Magnificence, The liege who holds your heart. The silver doors swing back And alone with him you hallow The amorous night—whose moon has made Such visions in me start. Under the Indian stars— But the end of all is moaning! I hear his dying breath that from Your Tomb shall never die. For every jasper flower He set in its dream seems loaning To Beauty a grief, Mumtaz Mahal, And unto Fate a sigh. |
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