WHEN THE SULTAN GOES TO ISPAHAN

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the cl.u.s.tered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room-- Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pa.s.s in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air.

The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows, Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes.

And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her.

That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's cas.e.m.e.nt opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Ispahan.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich [1837-1907]

THE SHADOW DANCE

She sees her image in the gla.s.s,-- How fair a thing to gaze upon!

She lingers while the moments run, With happy thoughts that come and pa.s.s,

Like winds across the meadow gra.s.s When the young June is just begun: She sees her image in the gla.s.s,-- How fair a thing to gaze upon!

What wealth of gold the skies ama.s.s!

How glad are all things 'neath the sun!

How true the love her love has won!

She recks not that this hour will pa.s.s,-- She sees her image in the gla.s.s.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

"ALONG THE FIELD AS WE CAME BY"

Along the field as we came by A year ago, my love and I, The aspen over stile and stone Was talking to itself alone.

"Oh, who are these that kiss and pa.s.s?

A country lover and his la.s.s; Two lovers looking to be wed; And time shall put them both to bed, But she shall lie with earth above, And he beside another love."

And sure enough beneath the tree There walks another love with me, And overhead the aspen heaves Its rainy-sounding silver leaves; And I spell nothing in their stir, But now perhaps they speak to her, And plain for her to understand They talk about a time at hand When I shall sleep with clover clad, And she beside another lad.

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]

"WHEN I WAS ONE-AND-TWENTY"

When I was one-and-twenty I heard a wise man say, "Give crowns and pounds and guineas But not your heart away; Give pearls away and rubies But keep your fancy free."

But I was one-and-twenty, No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty I heard him say again, "The heart out of the bosom Was never given in vain; 'Tis paid with sighs a plenty And sold for endless rue."

And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, 'tis true, 'tis true.

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]

"GRIEVE NOT, LADIES"

Oh, grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel your beauty going; It was a web of frail delight, Inconstant as an April snowing.

In other eyes, in other lands, In deep fair pools new beauty lingers; But like spent water in your hands It runs from your reluctant fingers.

You shall not keep the singing lark That owes to earlier skies its duty.

Weep not to hear along the dark The sound of your departing beauty.

The fine and anguished ear of night Is tuned to hear the smallest sorrow: Oh, wait until the morning light!

It may not seem so gone to-morrow.

But honey-pale and rosy-red!

Brief lights that make a little shining!

Beautiful looks about us shed-- They leave us to the old repining.

Think not the watchful, dim despair Has come to you the first, sweet-hearted!

For oh, the gold in Helen's hair!

And how she cried when that departed!

Perhaps that one that took the most, The swiftest borrower, wildest spender, May count, as we would not, the cost-- And grow more true to us and tender.

Happy are we if in his eyes We see no shadow of forgetting.

Nay--if our star sinks in those skies We shall not wholly see its setting.

Then let us laugh as do the brooks, That such immortal youth is ours, If memory keeps for them our looks As fresh as are the springtime flowers.

So grieve not, Ladies, if at night Ye wake to feel the cold December!

Rather recall the early light, And in your loved one's arms, remember.

Anna Hempstead Branch [18

SUBURB

Dull and hard the low wind creaks Among the rustling pampas plumes.

Drearily the year consumes Its fifty-two insipid weeks.