A poem by Violet Nicolson, Lawrence Hope, Adela Florence Cory Nicolson (1865 – 1904)
I slept upon the Rice-boat
That, reef protected, lay
At anchor, where the palm-trees
Infringe upon the bay.
The windless air was heavy
With cinnamon and rose,
The midnight calm seemed waiting,
Too fateful for repose.
One joined me on the Rice-boat
With wild and waving hair,
Whose vivid words and laughter
Awoke the silent air.
Oh, beauty, bare and shining,
Fresh washen in the bay,
One well may love by moonlight
What one would not love by day!
Above among the cordage
The night wind hardly stirred,
The lapping of the ripples
Was all the sound we heard.
Love reigned upon the Rice-boat,
And Peace controlled the sea,
The spirit’s consolation,
The senses’ ecstasy.
Though many things and mighty
Are furthered in the West,
The ancient Peace has vanished
Before To-day’s unrest.
For how among their striving,
Their gold, their lust, their drink,
Shall men find time for dreaming
Or any space to think?
Think not I scorn the Science
That lightens human pain;
Though man’s reliance often
Is placed on it in vain.
Maybe the long endeavour,
The patience and the strife,
May some day solve the riddle,
The Mystery of Life.
Perchance I do not value
Things Western as I ought,
The trains,–that take us, whither?
The ships,–that reach, what port?
To me it seems but chaos
Of greed and haste and rage,
The endless, aimless, motion
Of squirrels in a cage.
Here, where some ruined temple
In solitude decays,
With carven walls still hallowed
With prayers of bygone days,
Here, where the coral outcrops
Make “flowers of the sea,”
The olden Peace yet lingers,
In hushed serenity.
Ah, silent, silver moonlight,
Whose charm impartial falls
On tanks of sacred water
And squalid city walls,
Whose mystic whiteness hallows
The lowest and the least,
To thee men owe the glamour
That draws them to the East.
And as this azure water,
Unflecked hy wave or foam,
Conceals in its tranquillity
The dreaded white shark’s home,
So if love be illusion
I ask the dream to stay,
Content to love by moonlight
What I might not love by day.
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External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Robert Burns: The Captain’s Lady:
- Robert Burns: Sweet Tibbie Dunbar:
- Robert Burns: I Love My Love In Secret:
- Robert Burns: Jamie, Come Try Me:
- Robert Burns: The Banks Of Nith:
- Robert Burns: Young Jockie Was The Blythest Lad:
- Robert Burns: On A Bank Of Flowers:
- Robert Burns: The Gard’ner Wi’ His Paidle:
- Robert Burns: Delia, An Ode : “To the Editor of The Star.-Mr. Printer-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from-Yours, &c., R. Burns. Ellisland, near Dumfries, 18th May, 1789.”
- Robert Burns: The Wounded Hare:
- Robert Burns: Sketch In Verse: Inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. Fox.
- Robert Burns: A New Psalm For The Chapel Of Kilmarnock: On the Thanksgiving-Day for His Majesty’s Recovery.
- Robert Burns: Epistle To James Tennant Of Glenconner:
- Robert Burns: Ode On The Departed Regency Bill:
- Robert Burns: Beware O’ Bonie Ann:
- Robert Burns: To Miss Cruickshank, a very Young Lady : Written on the Blank Leaf of a Book, presented to her by the Author.
- Robert Burns: Caledonia -A Ballad :
- Robert Burns: Lines To John M’Murdo, Esq. Of Drumlanrig: Sent with some of the Author’s Poems.
- Robert Burns: Impromptu Lines To Captain Riddell: On Returning a Newspaper.
- Robert Burns: She’s Fair And Fause:
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Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Violet Nicolson ( 1865 – 1904); otherwise known as Adela Florence Nicolson (née Cory), was an English poetess who wrote under the pseudonym of Laurence Hope, however she became known as Violet Nicolson. In the early 1900s, she became a best-selling author. She committed suicide and is buried in Madras, now Chennai, India.