― 84 ―

The Judgment

SOUL of the secret places, sense of the hidden things,
My heart is a wounded bird winging wearily home to die,
Blind with the whirl of suns in the brazen bowl of the sky,
Fain for the whispering darkness to fondle and fold her wings.

Crags where the wheeling falcon the sapphire ether breaks,
Horns of the Himalaya where the blue young winds are born
That fan the flitting red feet of the poppy fires in the corn
Ere the temple bells are calling or the first pale lotus wakes.

From the dark of dreams ye called me to the world of wind and sun,
To the twofold path of the spirit and the way the flesh-feet take,
In the cloud-wake of the eagle, in the sun-track of the snake,
I have loved and served and suffered—let the Wise Ones' will be done!

Hope, of the gods belovéd; Faith, that was more than prayer,
For a rose in a far green valley, for an upland white with rye,
Three in one have we travailled, but the pledge of the noon goes by,
And who shall be judge of Wisdom or lord of the gift he bare?

  ― 85 ―
There's a wind that wakes at sunset and sobs in the deodars,
A strong kind wind that carries the heaviest-laden home,
Drowsed with the scent of pine and the breath of the honeycomb,
To the halls of eternal twilight beyond the surge of the stars!

So it was writ forever in the Book of gods and men,
One shall follow a far wind and compass his soul's decree,
One shall be slain for a king's whim, and one shall die on the Tree,
But who shall measure the mercies, or quibble with “Why”? or “When”?

The bulbul's song is ended, the desert well is dry,
The last of the lilacs withers unwept in the garden close,
The young wheat droops in the furrow, and far is Kashmiri's rose,
My heart is a wounded bird winging wearily home to die!