CHAMAN LALL

CHAMAN LALL(JESUS)"THIRTY YEARS AFTER"Itis thirty years since we two parted,It is thirty unswept, cobweb yearsSince, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,Like some knowing, hungering bird,Like some forewarned, huckstering drone of a butterfly,Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.And I am now a very old man—almost dead;I am now a very old ornament of lead;Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have readThese thirty years in bed.This room;And the shadows lengthening on the lawn;And the distant boom, boom of the world;Wearisome watchings for the first star;And the toil, toil of the dawn:These have emptied my soul of its waves,These have made cold prisons of my faery caves,These have frostedThe red, red poppy-leaf of time.Who now cares for my politics?Who now cares for my brilliant reparteesThat crushed one with an epigram,That struck one like an oriflamme?But now they ask me who I am.Once women came to me,And she,Once women came to me with their offeringsLike long lines of brown beesBurdened with offerings,Like naked houris of turbaned Kings,Once——But now driftsAcross the living-deadnessOf an Egyptian desertMy barren Arab way,My unflowered desert way.It is thirty years since we two parted,It is thirty unswept, cobweb yearsSince, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.And I am now a very old man—almost dead;I am now a very old ornament of lead;Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have readThese thirty years in bed.

CHAMAN LALL(JESUS)

Itis thirty years since we two parted,It is thirty unswept, cobweb yearsSince, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,Like some knowing, hungering bird,Like some forewarned, huckstering drone of a butterfly,Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.And I am now a very old man—almost dead;I am now a very old ornament of lead;Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have readThese thirty years in bed.This room;And the shadows lengthening on the lawn;And the distant boom, boom of the world;Wearisome watchings for the first star;And the toil, toil of the dawn:These have emptied my soul of its waves,These have made cold prisons of my faery caves,These have frostedThe red, red poppy-leaf of time.Who now cares for my politics?Who now cares for my brilliant reparteesThat crushed one with an epigram,That struck one like an oriflamme?But now they ask me who I am.Once women came to me,And she,Once women came to me with their offeringsLike long lines of brown beesBurdened with offerings,Like naked houris of turbaned Kings,Once——But now driftsAcross the living-deadnessOf an Egyptian desertMy barren Arab way,My unflowered desert way.It is thirty years since we two parted,It is thirty unswept, cobweb yearsSince, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.And I am now a very old man—almost dead;I am now a very old ornament of lead;Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have readThese thirty years in bed.

Itis thirty years since we two parted,

It is thirty unswept, cobweb years

Since, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,

Like some knowing, hungering bird,

Like some forewarned, huckstering drone of a butterfly,

Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.

And I am now a very old man—almost dead;

I am now a very old ornament of lead;

Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have read

These thirty years in bed.

This room;And the shadows lengthening on the lawn;And the distant boom, boom of the world;Wearisome watchings for the first star;And the toil, toil of the dawn:These have emptied my soul of its waves,These have made cold prisons of my faery caves,These have frostedThe red, red poppy-leaf of time.

This room;

And the shadows lengthening on the lawn;

And the distant boom, boom of the world;

Wearisome watchings for the first star;

And the toil, toil of the dawn:

These have emptied my soul of its waves,

These have made cold prisons of my faery caves,

These have frosted

The red, red poppy-leaf of time.

Who now cares for my politics?Who now cares for my brilliant reparteesThat crushed one with an epigram,That struck one like an oriflamme?But now they ask me who I am.

Who now cares for my politics?

Who now cares for my brilliant repartees

That crushed one with an epigram,

That struck one like an oriflamme?

But now they ask me who I am.

Once women came to me,And she,Once women came to me with their offeringsLike long lines of brown beesBurdened with offerings,Like naked houris of turbaned Kings,Once——But now driftsAcross the living-deadnessOf an Egyptian desertMy barren Arab way,My unflowered desert way.

Once women came to me,

And she,

Once women came to me with their offerings

Like long lines of brown bees

Burdened with offerings,

Like naked houris of turbaned Kings,

Once——But now drifts

Across the living-deadness

Of an Egyptian desert

My barren Arab way,

My unflowered desert way.

It is thirty years since we two parted,It is thirty unswept, cobweb yearsSince, with a look of indifference, in a storm of elegance,Like a swift passion—she swept past my youth unhonied.And I am now a very old man—almost dead;I am now a very old ornament of lead;Weismann and Ellis, Burton I have readThese thirty years in bed.

It is thirty years since we two parted,