Yasmini bends to the praise of men,
And looks in the mirror, upon her hand,[1]
To curse the beauty that failed her then--
Ah, none of her lovers can understand!
How her whole life hung on that beauty's power,
The spell that waned at the final test,
The charm that paled in the vital hour,--
Which won so many,--yet lost the best!
Ahi, Yasmini, who lost the best!

She leaves the dancing to reach the roof,
With the lover who claims the passing hour,
Her lips are his, but her eyes aloof
While the starlight falls in a silver shower.
Let him take what pleasure, what love, he may,
He, too, will suffer e'er life be spent,--
But Yasmini's soul has wandered away
To join the Lover, who came,--and went!
Ahi, Yasmini, He came,--and went!

[1] Indian women wear a small mirror in a ring on their thumbs.


Among the Rice Fields


She was fair as a Passion-flower,
(But little of love he knew.)
Her lucent eyes were like amber wine,
And her eyelids stained with blue.