Wilfrid Scawen Blunt 1840 (Petworth House) – 1922 (United Kingdom)
Gone are they the lost camps, light flittings, long sojournings
in Miná, in Gháula, Rijám left how desolate.
Lost are they. Rayyán lies lorn with its white torrent beds,
scored in lines like writings left by the flood--water.
Tent--floors smooth, forsaken, bare of all that dwelt in them,
years how long, the war--months, months too of peace--pleasures.
Spots made sweet with Spring--rains fresh--spilled from the Zodiac,
showers from clouds down--shaken, wind--wracks and thunder--clouds;
Clouds how wild of night--time, clouds of the dawn darkening,
clouds of the red sunset,--all speak the name of her.
Here, in green thorn--thickets, does bring forth how fearlessly;
here the ostrich--troops come, here too the antelopes.
Wild cows, with their wild calf--sucklings, standing over them,
while their weanlings wander wide in the bare valleys.
Clean--swept lie their hearth--stones, white as a new manuscript
writ with texts fresh--graven, penned by the cataracts,
Scored with lines and circles, limned with rings and blazonings,
as one paints a maid's cheek point--lined in indigo.
All amazed I stood there. How should I make questionings?
Dumb the rocks around me, silent the precipice,
Voices lost, where these dwelt who at dawn abandoning
tent and thorn--bush fencing fled to the wilderness.
Now thy sad heart acheth, grieveth loud remembering
girls how closely howdahed, awned with what canopies.
Every howdah curtained, lined with gauze embroideries,
figured with festoons hung red from the pole of it.
Trooped they there the maid--folk, wild white cows of Túdiha,
ay, or does of Wújra, long--necked, their fawns with them,
Fled as the miráge flees, fills the vale of Bíshata,
fills the tree--cladwádies, íthel and rock--mazes.
What of her, Nowára, thy lost love, who fled from thee,
every heart--link sundered, close loop and free fetter!
Hers the Mórra camp--fires lit how far in Fáïda,
in Hejáz what marches! How shalt thou win to her?
Eastward move they marching, to Muhájjer wandering
camped in Tái, in Férda, ay, in Rukhám of it.
Southward on to Yémen, to Sowéyk their sojournings,
to Waháf el Káhri, ay, and Tilkhám of it.
Man, have done! forget her, one too far to comfort thee!
Who would his love garner first let him sunder it.
Shed the love that fails thee. Strong be thou, and break with her.
Keep thy gifts for friendship, freed from thy wilderment.
Mount thee on thy nága. Travel--trained and hard she is,
low her back withleanness, lessened the hump of her;
Shrunk her sides and wasted, jaded with long journeyings,
spare as her hide shoe--straps frayed by her road--faring.
Light she to her halter, to thy hand that guideth her,
as a red cloud southwards loosed from its rain--burden.
Nay a fair wild--ass she; at her side the white--flanked one,
he the scarred ass--stallion, bitten and struck for her.
Climbed they two the hill--top, he the bite--scarred ass--tyrant
her new mood resenting, being in foal to him
On the crags high posted watcheth he from Thálabut
all the plain to guard her, ambushes laid for her.
Six months of Jumáda wandered have they waterless,
browsing the moist herbage, he her high sentinel.
Till returned their thirsting, need of the far water clefts,
all their will to win there speeding them waterwards.
What though with heels wounded, still the hot wind driveth them,
as a furnace burning, fire--scorched the breath of it.
In their trail a dust--cloud, like a smoke it wavereth,
like a fire new--lighted, kindling the flame of it,
Flame fanned by the North--wind, green wood mixed with dry fuel,
smoke aloft high curling. So is the dust of them.
He, when her pace slackened, pushed her still in front of him.
Nay, she might not falter, tyrant he urged her on,
Till they reached the streamlet, plunged and slaked their thirst in it,
A spring welling over, crest--high the reeds of it;
All its banks a cane--brake, thick with stems o'ershadowing;
bent are some, some standing, night--deep the shade of them.
Say is this her likeness? Or a wild cow wolf--raided
of her sweet calf loitering, she in the van of them.
She, the short--nosed, missed it. Lows she now unendingly,
roams the rocks, the sand--drifts, mourning and bellowing,
Lows in rage beholding that white shape, the limbs of it,
dragged by the grey wolf--cubs: who shall their hunger stay?
Theirs the chance to seize it, hers the short forgetfulness.
Death is no mean archer. Mark how his arrows hit.
Stopped she then at night--fall, while the rain in long furrows
scored the bush--grown hill--slopes, ceaseless the drip of it,
Dripped on her dark back--line, poured abro
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