Page:Von Heidenstam - Sweden's laureate, selected poems of Verner von Heidenstam (1919).djvu/68

Then cried the youngest girl, as with a laugh
She set on her black hair the jar of clay:
"Our friend is over-old to poetize.
Why, when will Djufar be a hundred, pray?"

Enraged, the bent old man arose and strewed
Crumbs for his doves with visage all a-frown.
But when he saw the cupolas that swelled
Like clustered grapes above his native town,
And looked across the plain, his aspect cleared.
"Come then, were I a hundred years and more,
My ancient tongue would still have strength to sing
While yonder scene was spread around my door."

They shouted. People hurried from the town
And sat as round a camp-fire in a mass;
The drummer brought his kettle-drum along,
Of fish-skin spread across a bowl of brass.
At length, when the musicians formed a ring,
Their flutes uplifted, lutes upon the knee,
And slender rebecs with the strings on pegs
Of bright wood from the Indian sandal-tree,
And when in the soft motion of the dance
The coin that on each maiden's brow was set
Began to glitter like a spark of fire,
Djufar approached the fountain-parapet.

He carefully drew out a scroll and pen
From the long silver sheath where they were stored
And snapped the ink-horn open that had hung