There's somebody sleeping
  In every bed!

II. Love Poems in Summer

Singalese Love Songs

I

  Your eyes are beautiful beggars,
  Careless singing minstrels,
  Who will not starve
  Nor sleep cold under the sky
  If they receive no largess
  Of mine.

  Once lived a woman
  Of great charity—

  At last
  Her own children
  Begged for bread.

II

  I would make you love me
  That you might possess
  Desire—

  For to your heart
  Beauty is a burned-out torch,
  And Faith, a blind pigeon,
  Friendship, a curious Persian myth,
  And Love, blank emptiness,
  Bearing no significance
  Nor any reality.

  Only Weariness is yours:
  I would make you love me
  That you might possess
  Desire.

III

  Is my love
  Of flesh or spirit?
  I only know to me
  Your eyes are wholly you.

  Our glances dart
  Like the flash of a bird
  Gone, before the colour of his wing
  Is seen.

  I have not bathed my soul
  In your eyes,
  My soul would drown.

IV

  I have starved to know your lips
  Yet my soul
  Does not die of want.

  For only dreams are real,
  And fulfilment is an illusion,
  There is but one fulfilment,
  Blind Nature's way—

  My arms reach toward illusion,
  And I would carry mist against my heart,
  Not the warm, heavy head
  Of a sleeping child.

Starving, I hold my dream.

V

  What do you seek,
  Beloved?

  When you have had
  All of me
  There will remain for you
  One beautiful desire the less.

  You think you seek my love
  But you seek
  My denial.

  Hunger, Want,
  Is the only pain
  I would not spare you—
  Alas, that too
  Will die!

The Silent Pool

  Your smile is a heron, flying
  Over waters cool,
  My thoughts of you are blue Iris!
  Today is the silent pool
  Which shining heron and Iris blue
  Are mirrored on.

  Tomorrow
  Will still reflect the Iris—
  My thoughts of you;
  But the heron will be gone.

Nocturne

  It is enough
  To feel your beauty
  With the lingers
  Of my heart,

  Your beauty, like the starlight,
  Filling night so gently, that it dreams
  Unwakened.

  I should feel your beauty against my face
  Though I were blind.

Theme Arranged for Organ

I. PRELUDE

  What would you have of me, my friend, in truth,
  A breath of understanding, or a glance
  Into your soul's dark places? Can a word
  Aid in your brave attempt to smother youth?
  Of what avail that trifling circumstance,
  In such a tumult could my voice be heard?

  Before your bitter need my lips are dumb
  So little can I give you. Should I come
  To feed a starving Titan with a crumb?

II. INTERLUDE

  Alas, I am too foolish or too wise,
  Too soon am blinded or I see too far!
  How can I follow with expectant feet,
  What is the beacon light that holds your eyes,
  Can this blind alley lead to any star
  And through this dark confusion, what retreat?

  For heaven is awed when comets crash to earth,
  But we, who grope and question our soul's worth,
  Stumbling, awaken only bitter mirth.

III. POSTLUDE

  A breath, a glance, a word,—no more, my friend,
  This is the sum of what I have to give
  Leaving the tale for ever incomplete.
  No perfect moment, and no tragic end,
  Within your heart those images shall live
  And die like footsteps down an empty street.

  Yet all the while a stifled instinct saith:
  "Spend your souls vigour to the utmost breath
  And let the hounds come baying at the death!"

The Moonlight Sonata

  My soul storm-beaten as an ancient pier
  Stands forth into the sea; wave on slow wave
  Of shining music, luminous and grave,
  Lifting against me, pouring through me, here
  Find wafts of unforgotten chords, which rise
  And droop like clinging sea-weed. You, so white,
  So still, so helpless on this fathomless night
  Float like a corpse with living, tortured eyes.
  Deep waves wash you against me; you impart
  No comfort to my spirit, give no sign
  Your inarticulate lips can taste the brine
  Drowning the secret timbers of my heart.

Possession

  I hold you fast, your hurrying breath,
  Your wandering feet, your restless heart,
  Are mine alone, for only death
  You vowed today, can make us part.

  Your eager lips, athirst to drain
  Life's goblet of its golden wine
  Shall drink tonight or thirst in vain—
  I hold you fast for you are mine.

  And when I search your soul until
  I see too deeply and divine
  That you can never love me—Still
  I hold you fast for you are mine!

  Evening: the Taj Mahal
  (A Lover Speaks)

Beloved!…

  India and you
  Breathe through my soul tonight,
  You in your gown, impossibly white—
  I marvel greatly that it fail
  To glow and pale
  With iridescent light—
  How can it hang in silent nun-like folds?
  Think of the flaming mystery it holds,
  You… You…

  We stand in that wide place
  Where love is frozen in marble, spire on spire,
  A snow-white nightingale with a heart of fire
  Soaring in space.
  We gaze, together, into the shining pool
  To catch the soul of beauty unaware
  Finding only the peaceful body there
  Of beauty drowned and still in waters cool.

  Burning so luminously in these pure white things
  Somehow akin, are palpitating fires,

  Intangible, yet visible as spires
  Or wings.
  And close at hand, an unseen Moslem sings
  Blind, haunting chants, which speak
  Of mystery, forevermore unguessed.
  O shining ones, I seek
  No farther, for my soul, content,
  Divines the secret of the Taj Mahal and you—
  Beauty and desire, possessed
  In white tranquillity, in flaming peace,
  Find rest.

The Gift

  What is this wine you have poured for me?
       You have offered up
  Your face in its pure transparency
       Like a crystal cup
  Which trembling