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Edition: 10
Last Poems Translations from the Book of Indian Love
Laurence Hope
Dedication to Malcolm Nicolson
I, who of lighter love wrote many a verse, Made public never words inspired by thee, Lest strangers' lips should carelessly rehearse Things that were sacred and too dear to me.
Thy soul was noble; through these fifteen years Mine eyes familiar, found no fleck nor flaw, Stern to thyself, thy comrades' faults and fears Proved generously thine only law.
Small joy was I to thee; before we met Sorrow had left thee all too sad to save. Useless my love--as vain as this regret That pours my hopeless life across thy grave.
L. H.
The Masters
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.
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!
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