The Secret Splendour

Lalita

Why is she silent to the ear of day?

Why turns she now a loveless countenance

To life's appeal of fire, the turbulent lay

Of passion-colour to her listening glance?—

Listening, but with how distance a dream-hue

In answer to some world-end loveliness

Of spirit wood-voice flowering neath moon-dew!

Her heart's lone-throbbing music none can guess

Who has not watched when vigil silences

Of inward prayer upon her visage wrought

In perfect rhythm the gloom-glow of her thought.

Her love's a flute ensouled with timeless drouth,

Craving each night the touch of Krishna's mouth

To wake its exquisite eternities.

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