  Before earth’s dawn hour thought to wane, Where Paradise leaned over Iran’s plain, A man god looked from his templed fane On a maiden wondrously fair: He saw her first in the Cashmere’s danks, Singing at dawn by a river’s banks, Where the long grass leaned to her, ranks on ranks, Forget-me-nots twined in her hair. O night of sorrow in Cashmere’s fen— For a god may not wed with a maid of men— Driven in wrath was the man god then From the genii’s holy mirth, Till the river-maid’s hand shall scatter and pour The seeds of the little blue flowers she wore, From the happy lintels of heaven’s own door To the uttermost ends of the earth. The Great Steep’s Garden is musked and fair: Araby-sweet is the spice on the air: Ah, softly tread, have gentle care, Love’s handmaid has passed this way. Did the long miles fret or the red suns beat? Did the great stones tear at her little white feet? Did the storm winds harry with stinging sleet, Or the mad seas bid her stay? Ah, Allah is great; but Love is great When the woman-heart needs make atoning and wait: She has led him back to the crystal gate,— Together they entered there. The Great Steep’s Garden is musked today: The spices of Araby over it lay, For Love’s handmaiden has passed this way, Forget-me-nots tressed in her hair. Indian paint brush |
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