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Last Poems: Translations from the Book of Indian Love

by Laurence Hope

Pages
about 47
Category
Literature & Fiction
Language
English
Reading time
52 min at 250 wpm
Start readingThe whole book, as cards or one word at a time. 29 min at 450 wpm in Read mode.

From the opening

Oh, Masters, you who rule the world, Will you not wait with me awhile, When swords are sheathed and sails are furled, And all the fields with harvest smile? I would not waste your time for long, I ask you but, when you are tired, To read how by the weak, the strong Are weighed and worshipped and desired.

When weary of the Mart, the Loom, The Withering-house, the Riffle-blocks, The Barrack-square, the Engine-room, The pick-axe, ringing on the rocks,-- When tents are pitched and work is done, While restful twilight broods above, By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun, See in my songs how women love.

We shared your lonely watch by night, We knew you faithful at the helm, Our thoughts went with you through the fight, That saved a soul,--or wrecked a realm Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you, In pride and joy, when you prevailed, And when you died, serene and true: --We wept in silence when you failed!

Oh, brain that did not gain the gold! Oh, arm, that could not wield the sword, Here is the love, that is not sold, Here are the hearts to hail you Lord!

You played and lost the game? What then? The rules are harsh and hard we know, You, still, Oh, brothers, are the men Whom we in secret reverence so. Your work was waste? Maybe your share Lay in the hour you laughed and kissed; Who knows but what your son shall wear The laurels that his father missed?

Ay, you who win, and you who lose, Whether you triumph,--or despair,-- When your returning footsteps choose The homeward track, our love is there. For, since the world is ordered thus, To you the fame, the stress, the sword, We can but wait, until to us You give yourselves, for our reward.

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