Protest By Zahir U Din

Alas! alas! this wasted Night

With all its Jasmin-scented air,

Its thousand stars, serenely bright!

I lie alone, and long for you,

Long for your Champa-scented hair,

Your tranquil eyes of twilight hue;

Long for the close-curved, delicate lips

–Their sinuous sweetness laid on mine–

Here, where the slender fountain drips,

Here, where the yellow roses glow,

Pale in the tender silver shine

The stars across the garden throw.

Alas! alas! poor passionate Youth!

Why must we spend these lonely nights?

The poets hardly speak the truth,–

Despite their praiseful litany,

His season is not all delights

Nor every night an ecstasy!

The very power and passion that make–

_Might_ make–his days one golden dream,

How he must suffer for their sake!

Till, in their fierce and futile rage,

The baffled senses almost deem

They might be happier in old age.

Age that can find red roses sweet,

And yet not crave a rose-red mouth;

Hear Bulbuls, with no wish that feet

Of sweeter singers went his way;

Inhale warm breezes from the South,

Yet never fed his fancy stray.

From some near Village I can hear

The cadenced throbbing of a drum,

Now softly distant, now more near;

And in an almost human fashion,

It, plaintive, wistful, seems to come

Laden with sighs of fitful passion,

To mock me, lying here alone

Among the thousand useless flowers

Upon the fountain’s border-stone–

Cold stone, that chills me as I lie

Counting the slowly passing hours

By the white spangles in the sky.

Some feast the Tom-toms celebrate,

Where, close together, side by side,

Gay in their gauze and tinsel state

With lips serene and downcast eyes,

Sit the young bridegroom and his bride,

While round them songs and laughter rise.

They are together; Why are we

So hopelessly, so far apart?

Oh, I implore you, come to me!

Come to me, Solace of mine eyes!

Come Consolation of my heart!

Light of my senses! What replies?

A little, languid, mocking breeze

That rustles through the Jasmin flowers

And stirs among the Tamarind trees;

A little gurgle of the spray

That drips, unheard, though silent hours,

Then breaks in sudden bubbling play.

Wind, have you never loved a rose?

And water, seek you not the Sea?

Why, therefore, mock at my repose?

Is it my fault I am alone

Beneath the feathery Tamarind tree

Whose shadows over me are thrown?

Nay, I am mad indeed, with thirst

For all to me this night denied

And drunk with longing, and accurst

Beyond all chance of sleep or rest,

With love, unslaked, unsatisfied,

And dreams of beauty unpossessed.

Hating the hour that brings you not,

Mad at the space betwixt us twain,

Sad for my empty arms, so hot

And fevered, even the chilly stone

Can scarcely cool their burning pain,–

And oh, this sense of being alone!

Take hence, O Night, your wasted hours,

You bring me not my Life’s Delight,

My Star of Stars, my Flower of Flowers!

You leave me loveless and forlorn,

Pass on, most false and futile night,

Pass on, and perish in the Dawn!

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Poems in English 

• Astrophel and Stella: III by Sir Philip Sidney by Philip Sidney
• Astrophel and Stella: I by Sir Philip Sidney by Philip Sidney
• Astrophel And Stella-First Song by Sir Philip Sidney by Philip Sidney
• To The Honble Commodore Hood on His Pardoning a Deserter by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To Mrs. Leonard on The Death of Her Husband by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• Phillis Wheatley – Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• On The Death of Mr. Snider Murder’d By Richardson by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• On Messrs Hussey and Coffin by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• On Friendship by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To The Honble Commodore Hood on His Pardoning a Deserter by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• His Excellency General Washington by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• On Friendship by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• America by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To The University Of Cambridge, In New-England by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To The Right Honourable William, Earl Of Dartmouth, His Majesty’s Principal Secretary Of The State For North-America, by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To the Rev. Dr. Thomas Amory by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To The King’s Most Excellent Majesty by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To The Honourable T. H. Esq; On the Death Of His Daughter by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To S.M., A Young African Painter, On Seeing His Works by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley
• To Mæcenas by Phillis Wheatley by Phillis Wheatley

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Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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