POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Brave little fingers tap upon the cedar-blanket.
But I do not open my door—
Better this grief!
I am thy poet, Nak-Ku,
Faithful to her who has given me
Dreams!
NAK-KU ANSWERS
I have given dreams to Kan-il-Lak, the singer!
Oh, what care I, Kan-il-Lak,
Though thy hut be full of witches,
Thy lips' melody flown before their kisses?
Know I not that all women
Must to the singer bring their gifts?
Know I not that to the singer comes at last
His hour of gift-judging?
I will lie, like a moonbeam, in thy heart.
A hundred gifts shall fall regarded not:
But where among the dust of forgetfulness
The one pearl shell is found—
Pure, faint-flushed with longing,
The deeps no man has seen
Brimming its lyric mouth with mystical murmurs—
There shalt thou pause
And render me thy song!
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