I take the belt from the dead loins That put away my love, And turn my sweet white horse After the caravan....

With dirty gold and clean steel I'll set Aischa free.

_Ballad of the Caucasus._

THE FLIGHT

Softly into the saddle Of my black horse with white feet; Your brothers are frowning And grasping swords in sleep.

My rifle is as clean as moonlight, My flints are new; My long grey sword is sighing In his blue sheath.

Fatima gave me my grey sword Of Temrouk steel, Damascened in red gold To cut a pathway for the feet of love.

My eye is dark and keen, My hand has never trembled on the sword.

If your brothers rise and follow On their stormy horses, If they stretch their hot hands To catch you from my breast, My rifle shall not sing to them, My steel shall spare.

My rifle's song is for my yellow girl, My eye is dark and keen, I'll send my bullet to the fairest heart That ever lady loved with in the world.

My hand upon the sword Shall be so strong, He'll find the little laughing place Where you dance in my breast; And we'll have no more of the silly world Where our lips must lie apart.

We'll let death pour our souls Into one cup, And mount like joyous birds to G.o.d With hearts on fire, And G.o.d will mingle us into one shape In an eternal garden of gold stars.

_Love Ballad of the Caucasus._

_CHINA_

WE WERE TWO GREEN RUSHES

We were two green rushes by opposing banks, And the small stream ran between.

Not till the water beat us down Could we be brought together, Not till the winter came Could we be mingled in a frosty sleep, Locked down and close.

_From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._

SONG WRITER PAID WITH AIR

I sit on a white wood box Smeared with the black name Of a seller of white sugar.

The little brown table is so dirty That if I had food I do not think I could eat.

How can I promise violets drunken in wine For your amus.e.m.e.nt, How can I powder your blue cotton dress With splinters of emerald, How can I sing you songs of the amber pear, Or pour for the finger-tips of your white fingers Mingled scents in a rose agate bowl?

_From the Chinese of J. Wing (nineteenth century)._

THE BAD ROAD

I have seen a pathway shaded by green great trees, A road bordered by thickets light with flowers.

My eyes have entered in under the green shadow, And made a cool journey far along the road.

But I shall not take the road, Because it does not lead to her house.

When she was born They shut her little feet in iron boxes, So that my beloved never walks the roads.

When she was born They shut her heart in a box of iron, So that my beloved shall never love me.

_From the Chinese._

THE WESTERN WINDOW

At the head of a thousand roaring warriors, With the sound of gongs, My husband has departed Following glory.

At first I was overjoyed To have a young girl's liberty.

Now I look at the yellowing willow-leaves; They were green the day he left.

I wonder if he also was glad?

_From the Chinese of w.a.n.g Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._

IN LUKEWARM WEATHER

The women who were girls a long time ago Are sitting between the flower bushes And speaking softly together:

"They pretend that we are old and have white hair; They say also that our faces Are not like the spring moons.

"Perhaps it is a lie; We cannot see ourselves.

"Who will tell us for certain That winter is not at the other side of the mirror, Obscuring our delights And covering our hair with frost?"

_From the Chinese of w.a.n.g Ch'ang Ling (eighth century)._

WRITTEN ON WHITE FROST

The white frost covers all the arbute-trees, Like powder on the faces of women.

Looking from window consider That a man without women is like a flower Naked without its leaves.