Atavism

Deep in the jungle vast and dim,
That knew not a white man's feet,
I smelt the odour of sun-warmed fur,
Musky, savage, and sweet.

Far it was from the huts of men
And the grass where Sambur feed;
I threw a stone at a Kadapu tree
That bled as a man might bleed.

Scent of fur and colour of blood: -
And the long dead instincts rose,
I followed the lure of my season's mate, -
And flew, bare-fanged, at my foes.

*        *        *

Pale days: and a league of laws
Made by the whims of men.
Would I were back with my furry cubs
In the dusk of a jungle den.

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Adela Florence Nicolson, better known by her pen name Laurence Hope, was an English poet who gained popularity in the early 20th century for her verse inspired by Indian themes and settings. She was born on April 9, 1865, in Stoke Bishop, England. Nicolson's work is often associated with themes of love, longing, and the exoticism of the East. She tragically ended her own life on October 4, 1904. Despite her short life, her poetry left a lasting impact and continues to be read and appreciated.

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Reverie of Ormuz the Persian

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Sea Song

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

In the Early, Pearly Morning: Song by Valgovind

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Ojira, to Her Lover

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

English

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Genesis

    I was but a half-grown boy,
    You were a girl-child slight.
    Ah, how weary you were!
    You had led in the bullock-fight . . .
    We slew the bullock at length
    With knives and maces of stone.
    And so your feet were torn,
    Your lean arms bruised to the bone.

    Perhaps 'twas the slain beast's blood
    We drank, or a root we ate,
    Or our reveling evening bath
    In the fall by the garden gate,
    But you turned to a witching thing,
    Side-glancing, and frightened me;
    You purred like a panther's cub,
    You sighed like a shell from the sea.

    We knelt.    I caressed your hair
    By the light of the leaping fire:
    Your fierce eyes blinked with smoke,
    Pine-fumes, that enhanced desire.
    ...

Vachel Lindsay

On Pilgrimage

Oh, youthful bearer of my palanquin,
Thy glossy hair lies loosened on thy neck,
The "tears of labour" gem thy velvet skin,
Whose even texture knows no other fleck.

Thy slender shoulder strains beneath my weight;
Too fair thou art for work, sweet slave of mine.
Would that this idle breast, reversing fate,
A willing serf to love, supported thine!

I smell the savage scent of sun-warmed fur
Close in the Jungle, musky, hot and sweet. -
The air comes from thy shoulder, even as myrrh,
Would we were as the panthers, free to meet.

The Temple road is steep; I grieve to see
Thy slender ankles bruised among the clods.
Oh, my Beloved, if I might worship thee!
Beauty is greater far than all the Gods.

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

The Garden by the Bridge

The Desert sands are heated, parched and dreary,
    The tigers rend alive their quivering prey
In the near Jungle; here the kites rise, weary,
    Too gorged with living food to fly away.

All night the hungry jackals howl together
    Over the carrion in the river bed,
Or seize some small soft thing of fur or feather
    Whose dying shrieks on the night air are shed.

I hear from yonder Temple in the distance
    Whose roof with obscene carven Gods is piled,
Reiterated with a sad insistence
    Sobs of, perhaps, some immolated child.

Strange rites here, where the archway's shade is deeper,
    Are consummated in the river bed;
Parias steal the rotten railway sleeper
    To burn the bodies of their cholera dead.

But yet, their lust, thei...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Reverie Of Mahomed Akram At The Tamarind Tank

The Desert is parched in the burning sun
And the grass is scorched and white.
But the sand is passed, and the march is done,
We are camping here to-night.
    I sit in the shade of the Temple walls,
    While the cadenced water evenly falls,
    And a peacock out of the Jungle calls
    To another, on yonder tomb.
    Above, half seen, in the lofty gloom,
    Strange works of a long dead people loom,
Obscene and savage and half effaced -
An elephant hunt, a musicians' feast -
And curious matings of man and beast;
What did they mean to the men who are long since dust?
    Whose fingers traced,
    In this arid waste,
These rioting, twisted, figures of love and lust.

Strange, weird things that no man may say,
Things Humanity hides away; -
  ...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Song of the Parao (Camping-ground)

Heart, my heart, thou hast found thy home!
From gloom and sorrow thou hast come forth,
Thou who wast foolish, and sought to roam
'Neath the cruel stars of the frozen North.

Thou hast returned to thy dear delights;
The golden glow of the quivering days,
The silver silence of tropical nights,
No more to wander in alien ways.

Here, each star is a well-loved friend;
To me and my heart at the journey's end.

These are my people, and this my land,
I hear the pulse of her secret soul.
This is the life that I understand,
Savage and simple and sane and whole.

Washed in the light of a clear fierce sun, -
Heart, my heart, the journey is done.

See! the painted piece of the skies,
Where the rose-hued opal of sunset lies.
Hear the pass...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

The Pursuit of Daphne.

    Daphne is running, running through the grass,
        The long stalks whip her ankles as she goes.
    I saw the nymph, the god, I saw them pass
        And how a mounting flush of tender rose
    Invaded the white bosom of the lass
        And reached her shoulders, conquering their snows.
    He wasted all his breath, imploring still:
    They passed behind the shadow of the hill.

    The mad course goes across the silent plain,
        Their flying footsteps make a path of sound
    Through all the sleeping country.    Now with pain
        She runs across a stretch of stony ground
    That wounds her soft-palmed feet and now again
        She hastens through a wood where flowers abound,
    Which staunch her cuts with balsam where she treads
    And f...

Edward Shanks