98
THE INDIAN SONG OF SONGS.
Hear'st him not, my Radha?
Lo, night bendeth o'er thee—
Darker than dark Tamâla-leaves—
To list thy marriage-song;
Dark as the touchstone that tries gold,
And see now—on before thee—
Those lines of tender light that creep
The clouded sky along:
O night! that trieth gold of love,
This love is proven perfect!
O lines that streak the touchstone sky,
Flash forth true shining gold!
O rose-leaf feet, go boldly!
O night!—that lovest lovers—
Thy softest robe of silence
About these bridals fold!
Lo, night bendeth o'er thee—
Darker than dark Tamâla-leaves—
To list thy marriage-song;
Dark as the touchstone that tries gold,
And see now—on before thee—
Those lines of tender light that creep
The clouded sky along:
O night! that trieth gold of love,
This love is proven perfect!
O lines that streak the touchstone sky,
Flash forth true shining gold!
O rose-leaf feet, go boldly!
O night!—that lovest lovers—
Thy softest robe of silence
About these bridals fold!
See'st thou not, my Radha?
Lo, the night, thy bridesmaid,
Comes!—her eyes thick-painted
With soorma of the gloom—
Lo, the night, thy bridesmaid,
Comes!—her eyes thick-painted
With soorma of the gloom—
