The Bride

Beat on the Tom-toms, and scatter the flowers,
Jasmin, Hibiscus, vermillion and white,
This is the day, and the Hour of Hours,
Bring forth the Bride for her Lover's delight.
Maidens no more, as a maiden shall claim her,
Near, in his Mystery, draweth Desire.
Who, if she waver a moment, shall blame her?
She is a flower, and love is a fire.
        Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Give her the anklets, the rings and the necklace,
Darken her eyelids with delicate Art,
Heighten the beauty, so youthful and fleckless,
By the Gods favoured, oh, Bridegroom thou art!
Twine in thy fingers her fingers so slender,
Circle together the Mystical Fire,
Bridegroom, - a whisper - be gentle and tender,
Choti Tinchaurya knows not desire.
        Abhi Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Bring forth the silks and the veil that shall cover
Beauty, till yesterday, careless and wild,
Red are her lips for the kiss of a lover,
Ripe are her breasts for the lips of a child.
Centre and Shrine of Mysterious Power,
Chalice of Pleasure and Rose of Delight,
Shyly aware of the swift-coming hour,
Waiting the shade and the silence of night,
        Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Still must the Bridegroom his longing dissemble,
Longing to loosen the silk-woven cord,
Ah, how his fingers will flutter and tremble,
Fingers well skilled with the bridle and sword.
Thine is his valor oh, Bride, and his beauty,
Thine to possess and re-issue again,
Such is thy tender and passionate duty,
Licit thy pleasure and honoured thy pain.
        Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

Choti Tinchaurya, lovely and tender,
Still all unbroken to sorrow and strife.
Come to the Bridegroom who, silk-clad and slender,
Brings thee the Honour and Burden of Life.
Bidding farewell to thy light-hearted playtime,
Worship thy Lover with fear and delight,
Art thou not ever, though slave of his daytime,
Choti Tinchaurya, queen of his night?
        Choti Tinchaurya syani hogayi!

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

Middle-age

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Sher Afzul

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Valgovind's Song in the Spring

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Reverie Of Mahomed Akram At The Tamarind Tank

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

English

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Marriage Thoughts: by Morsellin Khan

Bridegroom
I give you my house and my lands, all golden with harvest;
My sword, my shield, and my jewels, the spoils of my strife,
My strength and my dreams, and aught I have gathered of glory,
And to-night - to-night, I shall give you my very life.

Bride
I may not raise my eyes, O my Lord, towards you,
And I may not speak: what matter? my voice would fail.
But through my dowacast lashes, feeling your beauty,
I shiver and burn with pleasure beneath my veil.

Younger Sisters
We throw sweet perfume upon her head,
And delicate flowers round her bed.
Ah, would that it were our turn to wed!

Mother
I see my daughter, vaguely, through my tears,
(Ah, lost caresses of my early years!)
I see the bridegroom, King of men i...

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The Bride

        The little white bride is left alone
        With him, her lord; the guests have gone;
                The festal hall is dim.
        No jesting now, nor answering mirth.
        The hush of sleep falls on the earth
                And leaves her here with him.

        Why should there be, O little white bride,
        When the world has left you by his side,
                A tear to brim your eyes?
        Some old love-face that comes again,
        Some old love-moment sweet with pain
                Of passionate memories?

        Does your heart yearn back with last regret
        For the maiden meads of mignonette
                And the fairy-haunted wood,
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        A little while, the fre...

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Valgovind's Song in the Spring

The Temple bells are ringing,
The young green corn is springing,
    And the marriage month is drawing very near.

I lie hidden in the grass,
And I count the moments pass,
    For the month of marriages is drawing near.

Soon, ah, soon, the women spread
The appointed bridal bed
    With hibiscus buds and crimson marriage flowers,

Where, when all the songs are done,
And the dear dark night begun,
    I shall hold her in my happy arms for hours.

She is young and very sweet,
From the silver on her feet
    To the silver and the flowers in her hair,
And her beauty makes me swoon,
As the Moghra trees at noon
    Intoxicate the hot and quivering air.

Ah, I would the hours were fleet
As her silver circled feet,
    I am...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Mariline.

At the wheel plied Mariline,
Beauteous and self-serene,
Never dreaming of that mien
Fit for lady or for queen.

Never sang she, but her words,
Music-laden, swept the chords

Of the heart, that eagerly
Stored the subtle melody,
Like the honey in the bee;
Never spake, but showed that she

Held the golden master-key
That unlocked all sympathy

Pent in souls where Feeling glows,
Like the perfume in the rose,
Like her own innate repose,
Like the whiteness in the snows.

Richly thoughted Mariline!
Nature's heiress! - nature's queen!


II.

By her side, with liberal look,
Paused a student o'er a book,
Wielder of a shepherd's crook,
Reveller by grove and brook:

Hunter-up of musty tomes,

Charles Sangster

My Bride That Is To Be

O soul of mine, look out and see
My bride, my bride that is to be!
Reach out with mad, impatient hands,
And draw aside futurity
As one might draw a veil aside -
And so unveil her where she stands
Madonna-like and glorified -
The queen of undiscovered lands
Of love, to where she beckons me -
My bride - my bride that is to be.

The shadow of a willow-tree
That wavers on a garden-wall
In summertime may never fall
In attitude as gracefully
As my fair bride that is to be; -
Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown
As lightly flutter to the lawn
As fall her fairy-feet upon
The path of love she loiters down. -
O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet
Not one may stain her sandal wet -
Aye, she might dance upon the way
Nor crush a single...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Bride Of A Year.

She stands in front of her mirror
    With bright and joyous air,
Smoothes out with a skilful hand
    Her waves of golden hair;
But the tell tale roses on her cheek,
    So changing yet so bright,
And downcast, earnest eye betray
    New thoughts are hers to-night.

Then say what is the fairy spell,
    Around her beauty thrown,
Lending a new and softer charm
    To every look and tone?
It is the hidden consciousness -
    The blissful, joyous thought
That she, at length hath wholly won
    The heart she long had sought.

To-morrow is her bridal day,
    That day of hopes and fears,
Of partings from beloved friends,
    Of sunshine and of tears:
To-morrow will she says the words,
    Those words whose import deep
Will f...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon