Sunstroke

Oh, straight, white road that runs to meet,
    Across green fields, the blue green sea,
You knew the little weary feet
    Of my child bride that was to be!

Her people brought her from the shore
    One golden day in sultry June,
And I stood, waiting, at the door,
    Praying my eyes might see her soon.

With eager arms, wide open thrown,
    Now never to be satisfied!
Ere I could make my love my own
    She closed her amber eyes and died.

Alas! alas! they took no heed
    How frail she was, my little one,
But brought her here with cruel speed
    Beneath the fierce, relentless sun.

We laid her on the marriage bed
    The bridal flowers in her hand,
A maiden from the ocean led
    Only, alas! to die inland.

I walk alone; the air is sweet,
    The white road wanders to the sea,
I dream of those two little feet
    That grew so tired in reaching me.

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

Marriage Thoughts: by Morsellin Khan

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Famine Song

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

The Window Overlooking the Harbour

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Story of Udaipore: Told by Lalla-ji, the Priest

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

English

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Yasmini

At night, when Passion's ebbing tide
    Left bare the Sands of Truth,
Yasmini, resting by my side,
    Spoke softly of her youth.

"And one" she said "was tall and slim,
    Two crimson rose leaves made his mouth,
And I was fain to follow him
    Down to his village in the South.

"He was to build a hut hard by
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We were to live, and love, and lie,
    And watch the water flowing.

"Ah, dear, delusive, distant shore,
    By dreams of futile fancy gilt!
The riverside we never saw,
    The palm leaf hut was never built!

"One had a Tope of Mangoe trees,
    Where early morning, noon and late,
The Persian wheels, with patient ease,
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Story of Lilavanti

They lay the slender body down
    With all its wealth of wetted hair,
Only a daughter of the town,
    But very young and slight and fair.

The eyes, whose light one cannot see,
    Are sombre doubtless, like the tresses,
The mouth's soft curvings seem to be
    A roseate series of caresses.

And where the skin has all but dried
    (The air is sultry in the room)
Upon her breast and either side,
    It shows a soft and amber bloom.

By women here, who knew her life,
    A leper husband, I am told,
Took all this loveliness to wife
    When it was barely ten years old.

And when the child in shocked dismay
    Fled from the hated husband's care
He caught and tied her, so they say,
    Down to his bedside by her hair.

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

Second Song: The Girl from Baltistan

    Throb, throb, throb,
Far away in the blue transparent Night,
On the outer horizon of a dreaming consciousness,
She hears the sound of her lover's nearing boat
    Afar, afloat
On the river's loneliness, where the Stars are the only light;
    Hear the sound of the straining wood
    Like a broken sob
    Of a heart's distress,
    Loving misunderstood.

She lies, with her loose hair spent in soft disorder,
On a silken sheet with a purple woven border,
Every cell of her brain is latent fire,
Every fibre tense with restrained desire.
    And the straining oars sound clearer, clearer,
    The boat is approaching nearer, nearer;
    "How to wait through the moments' space
    Till I see the light of my lover's face?"

    Throb, throb, thro...

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Reverie of Ormuz the Persian

Softly the feathery Palm-trees fade in the violet Distance,
Faintly the lingering light touches the edge of the sea,
Sadly the Music of Waves, drifts, faint as an Anthem's insistence,
Heard in the aisles of a dream, over the sandhills, to me.

Now that the Lights are reversed, and the Singing changed into sighing,
Now that the wings of our fierce, fugitive passion are furled,
Take I unto myself, all alone in the light that is dying,
Much of the sorrow that lies hid at the Heart of the World.

Sad am I, sad for your loss: for failing the charm of your presence,
Even the sunshine has paled, leaving the Zenith less blue.
Even the ocean lessens the light of its green opalescence,
Since, to my sorrow I loved, loved and grew weary of, you.

Why was our passion so fleetin...

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Written in Cananore

I

Who was it held that Love was soothing or sweet?
Mine is a painful fire, at its whitest heat.

Who said that Beauty was ever a gentle joy?
Thine is a sword that flashes but to destroy.

Though mine eyes rose up from thy Beauty's banquet, calm and refreshed,
My lips, that were granted naught, can find no rest.

My soul was linked with thine, through speech and silent hours,
As the sound of two soft flutes combined, or the scent of sister flowers.

But the body, that wretched slave of the Sultan, Mind,
Who follows his master ever, but far behind,

Nothing was granted him, and every rebellious cell
Rises up with angry protest, "It is not well!

Night is falling; thou hast departed; I am alone;
And the Last Sweetness of Love thou hast n...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson