I knew not what my feelings meant,As captain of a vessel bent;
I sheltered every thought of mine,As birds to branches would incline;
And vanished midst my changeful fate,As armies rush toward fortress gate;
Seeking deliverance thereby,From what stern fate would signify;
I fled my heart and sought my soul,That I might know and make me whole;
I questioned where the pathway ledThat sent these griefs into my head;
O Time, tyrannical and stern,Cruel to art's fair daughter — learn!
I whose life-bond was solemnized,Glad tidings to grief's heart devised;
Alas, the morn brings winds that blowWith tyrants' madness in their flow;
O wind, forbear — a little whileThis feeble light shall lose its smile;
In this poor world that never gaveEternity unto the brave;
Be gentle, till I see my sonKeeper of honour — duty won;
Who knows life's trials, nor would shareThe idle rich man's sumptuous fare;
Alas, my solitude's embrace —Within it grief's pale phantoms pace;
That sweep away youth's dreamings bright,And ring grief's heart in sorrow's night;
Alas for one whose heart would beatBetween the prison's iron seat;
My heart's jailer is a bird,Far off — the branches lure, unheard;
I scent the morning's breeze and findTreachery in fate's designs unkind;
Where is compassion? Where for meA shield from cursed destiny?
Even my son has turned away,Since he became the fretful prey;
Forgetting her who gave him allThe easy life of pleasure's hall;
Forgetting what she owes to him,And countless debts that ne'er grow dim;
All that concerns him is the dreamOf youth that filled his eyes' bright gleam;
Whilst I, whose heart within me boreLove that was love forevermore;
And now my solitude draws near,My heart held captive, bound in fear;
Since I bade farewell to my mother,Then to my husband — love's dear brother;
O mother, be my solace now,Since help and comfort ceased their vow;
A soul like thine shall live on high,Above the memory that shall not die;
The herald touched my inmost breast —To whom, O Jamila, wilt thou rest?
If I seek refuge, 'tis the sky,And God's compassion throned on high;
I am not of the land of ill,Whose people are but mud and rill;
I am of splendour's radiant light,Of meetings pure and chaste and bright;
If I accept my solitude,'Tis that it keeps my faith renewed;
Within its garden I inhaleBreaths that sweet longing would exhale;
Its phantoms ever whisper nearOf happiness at every year;
How many a poem has shone clearFrom lovers' hearts that held it dear;
Its cadence magic, vision highBeyond what thought could signify;
In solitude a bird takes wingIn my own heaven, companioning;
It yearns to me with tenderness,With kindness that would soothe distress;
In eager questioning it criesWhat hidden years would signify;
Alas, we both are lost, perplexed,A scorching wind our souls has vexed;
In solitude the spirits riseFrom tombs beneath the vaulted skies;
How many a dear one, fond and true,Still glides like vessels on the blue;
Conversing as they journey onThrough what shall be and what is gone;
And when love's mention stirs the air,Love hides its flame from every stare;
Then passes, lowering weary lids,Whilst light upon the brow undimmed;
In solitude a memory wakesLove pulsing like an infant's aches;
A memory whose shadows bendWith love and fragrance without end;
I see it fill my inmost part,Or in mine eyes behind lids' art;
To others it seems like a sageWho feeds on wisdom of the age;
Yet I perceive within a sighThat hints at sorrow's melody;
Its phantoms whisper, ah, the moanOf those who languish, love-lorn, lone;
Their murmurs work a magic spellUpon my hidden depths as well;
Nay, a quick pulse, in anguish torn,That flashes longing, love forlorn;
Alas for one bewildered soulWho lives the wanderers' world as whole;
He seems as though he would descendThe heritage of those without end;
We both are birds that lost their wayIn sorrow's world, bereft of day;
Here in my solitude I stand,The tender phantom close at hand;
I yearn for youth's bright dreaming hours —Shall youth return among the flowers?
I am unchanged, as I have been,Though passing years my form have seen;
My youthful soul still dwells in me,Filled with devotion's constancy;
My mother is with me still,Her prayer my fortress on the hill;
Death could not hide her from my sight —Her spirit lives among the bright;
Here in my solitude I dwell,On memories of those who fell;
Memories from a distant past,And others in the present cast;
Within my breast, through feelings deep,Their fragrance rises, bittersweet;
Or wanderers who live herein,For thee, or here among the serene;
And here my child and hopes reside,Wherein bright visions still abide;
He still requires my counsel's art —How shall he rise among his part?
How choose the friendship true and triedFrom infancy's first gentle guide?
How learn that I am shield and stayAgainst the wasteful, reckless way?
I am not mother tender, kind,Who leads him through the idle mind;
If I shall live, 'tis for his sake —For him the world grows small, opaque;
Here in my solitude I bide,Among the dreamers' garden wide;
Where roses bloom, or thyme's sweet breath,Or jasmine flowers that conquer death;
Where tender blooms have joined as oneFrom poets' fancy, vision spun;
How long beneath its arches fairI drew forth poetry's solid ware;
I yearn for daisies' golden face,As for a friend of gentle grace;
And vanish in imagination's landThese branches would enclose and stand;
Here in my solitude I slakeMy thirst from eyes that sorrow make;
And eyes of water, turned to brine,By one who yearns for faith divine;
I have known many trials sore,And read the chronicles of yore;
And written from life's tales a storeEternal for the reader's lore;
I cast my verse amid the throngAnd lived the inspired poets' song;
And charmed with creation every mindOf knowledge and of art combined;
Here in my solitude I live,Nor seek another's help to give;
My Lord is helper — if I dareChallenge what demon would ensnare;
I do not fear the realm of death,For God is o'er the tyrant's breath;
My feelings still enrich and fillThe songs and melodies at will;
My thoughts still guide the hearts that strayAnd wander in bewildered way;
My jewels still shall light the roadFor publishers who bear the load;
My features still shall animateThe lovers' world and consecrate;
My knowledge still in librariesShall dwell among the wise and free;
This wealth suffices — I shall liveBy it, in both worlds that God give.
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