Song Of Khan Zada

As one may sip a Stranger's Bowl
You gave yourself but not your soul.
I wonder, now that time has passed,
Where you will come to rest at last.

You gave your beauty for an hour,
I held it gently as a flower.
You wished to leave me, told me so, -
I kissed your feet and let you go.

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

The Garden of Kama: Kama the Indian Eros

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Yasmini

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

The Hut

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Kotri, by the River

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

English

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Khan Zada's Song on the Hillside

The fires that burn on all the hills
    Light up the landscape grey,
The arid desert land distills
    The fervours of the day.

The clear white moon sails through the skies
    And silvers all the night,
I see the brilliance of your eyes
    And need no other light.

The death sighs of a thousand flowers
    The fervent day has slain
Are wafted through the twilight hours,
    And perfume all the plain.

My senses strain, and try to clasp
    Their sweetness in the air,
In vain, in vain; they only grasp
    The fragrance of your hair.

The plain is endless space expressed;
    Vast is the sky above,
I only feel, against your breast,
    Infinities of love.

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

When Love is Over - Song of Khan Zada

Only in August my heart was aflame,
    Catching the scent of your Wind-stirred hair,
Now, though you spread it to soften my sleep
    Through the night, I should hardly care.

Only last August I drank that water
    Because it had chanced to cool your hands;
When love is over, how little of love
    Even the lover understands!

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Yasin Khan

Ay, thou has found thy kingdom, Yasin Khan,
Thy fathers' pomp and power are thine, at last.
No more the rugged roads of Khorasan,
The scanty food and tentage of the past!

Wouldst thou make war? thy followers know no fear.
Where shouldst thou lead them but to victory?
Wouldst thou have love? thy soft-eyed slaves draw near,
Eager to drain thy strength away from thee.

My thoughts drag backwards to forgotten days,
To scenes etched deeply on my heart by pain;
The thirsty marches, ambuscades, and frays,
The hostile hills, the burnt and barren plain.

Hast thou forgotten how one night was spent,
Crouched in a camel's carcase by the road,
Along which Akbar's soldiers, scouting, went,
And he himself, all unsuspecting, rode?

Did we not waken one d...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Song of Taj Mahomed

Dear is my inlaid sword; across the Border
It brought me much reward; dear is my Mistress,
The jewelled treasure of an amorous hour.
Dear beyond measure are my dreams and Fancies.

These I adore; for these I live and labour,
Holding them more than sword or jewelled Mistress,
For this indeed may rust, and that prove faithless,
But, till my limbs are dust, I have my Fancies.

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Kashmiri Song

Pale hands I love beside the Shalimar,
    Where are you now?    Who lies beneath your spell?
Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far,
    Before you agonise them in farewell?

Oh, pale dispensers of my Joys and Pains,
    Holding the doors of Heaven and of Hell,
How the hot blood rushed wildly through the veins
    Beneath your touch, until you waved farewell.

Pale hands, pink tipped, like Lotus buds that float
    On those cool waters where we used to dwell,
I would have rather felt you round my throat,
    Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

The Hut

Dear little Hut by the rice-fields circled,
That cocoa-nuts shade above.
I hear the voices of children singing,
And that means love.

When shall the traveller's march be over,
When shall his wandering cease?
This little homestead is bare and simple,
And that means peace.

Nay! to the road I am not unfaithful;
In tents let my dwelling be!
I am not longing for Peace or Passion
From any one else but thee,
My Krishna,
Any one else but thee!

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson