The First Lover

As o'er the vessel's side she leant,
    She saw the swimmer in the sea
With eager eyes on her intent,
    "Come down, come down and swim with me."

So weary was she of her lot,
    Tired of the ship's monotony,
She straightway all the world forgot
    Save the young swimmer in the sea

So when the dusky, dying light
    Left all the water dark and dim,
She softly, in the friendly night,
    Slipped down the vessel's side to him.

Intent and brilliant, brightly dark,
    She saw his burning, eager eyes,
And many a phosphorescent spark
    About his shoulders fall and rise.

As through the hushed and Eastern night
    They swam together, hand in hand,
Or lay and laughed in sheer delight
    Full length upon the level sand.

"Ah, soft, delusive, purple night
    Whose darkness knew no vexing moon!
Ah, cruel, needless, dawning light
    That trembled in the sky too soon!"

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

Hira-Singh's Farewell to Burmah

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Three Songs of Zahir-u-Din

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Famine Song

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

Written in Cananore

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

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
    The stream where palms were growing,
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,
    Brought up their liquid, silver freight.

"A...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Surface Rights

Drifting, drifting down the River,
Tawny current and foam-flecked tide,
Sorrowful songs of lonely boatmen,
Mournful forests on either side.

Thine are the outcrops' glittering blocks,
The quartz where the rich pyrites gleam,
The golden treasure of unhewn rocks
And the loose gold in the stream.

But, - the dim vast forests along the shore,
That whisper wonderful things o' nights, -
These are things that I value more,
My beautiful "surface rights."

Drifting, drifting down the River, -
Stars a-tremble about the sky -
Ah, my lover, my heart is breaking,
Breaking, breaking, I know not why.

Why is Love such a sorrowful thing?
This I never could understand;
Pain and passion are linked together,
Ever I find them hand in hand.
...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

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...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

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

    "And when the Summer Heat is great,
    And every hour intense,
    The Moghra, with its subtle flowers,
    Intoxicates the sense."

The Coco palms stood tall and slim, against the golden-glow,
And all their grey and graceful plumes were waving to and fro.

She lay forgetful in the boat, and watched the dying Sun
Sink slowly lakewards, while the stars replaced him, one by one.

She saw the marble Temple walls long white reflections make,
The echoes of their silvery bells were blown across the lake.

The evening air was very sweet; from off the island bowers
Came scents of Moghra trees in bloom, and Oleander flowers.

    "The Moghra flowers that smell so sweet
    When love's young fancies play;
    The acrid Moghra flowers, still sweet

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson

Sea Song

Against the planks of the cabin side,
    (So slight a thing between them and me,)
The great waves thundered and throbbed and sighed,
    The great green waves of the Indian sea!

Your face was white as the foam is white,
    Your hair was curled as the waves are curled,
I would we had steamed and reached that night
    The sea's last edge, the end of the world.

The wind blew in through the open port,
    So freshly joyous and salt and free,
Your hair it lifted, your lips it sought,
    And then swept back to the open sea.

The engines throbbed with their constant beat;
    Your heart was nearer, and all I heard;
Your lips were salt, but I found them sweet,
    While, acquiescent, you spoke no word.

So straight you lay in your narrow bert...

Adela Florence Cory Nicolson