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VENUS62 Jun 2014
Rus wa na ** tum hamse, meri jaan
Murjha na jaye kahin dil ka ye gulistaan

Juda hai sabse andaaz ye hamara
Saason se  humney cheda hai
dil ka saaz ye tumhara

Khwahish hai tum mein; ** jaye hum fanaa
Karte hai tumse toh
hum muhabbat  bepannah

Mil bhi lo aake hamse is tarah
Noor mil jaaye
Jahaalat se jis tarah

Khuda Ko paane ka;  yeh hai raasta nirala
Muhabbat bhi  hai bas
kudrat ka hi toh karishma

Rus wa na ** tum hamse, meri jaan
Murjha na jaye kahi dil ka ye gulistan
High on a mountain of enamell’d head—
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter’d “hope to be forgiven”
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven—
Of rosy head, that towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve—at noon of night,
While the moon danc’d with the fair stranger light—
Uprear’d upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th’ uuburthen’d air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro’ the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die—
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown—
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look’d out above into the purple air
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow’d all the beauty twice again,
Save when, between th’ Empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit flapp’d his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that grayish green
That Nature loves the best for Beauty’s grave
Lurk’d in each cornice, round each architrave—
And every sculptured cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem’d earthly in the shadow of his niche—
Achaian statues in a world so rich?
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis—
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! Oh, the wave
Is now upon thee—but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the gray twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago—
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud—
Is not its form—its voice—most palpable and loud?
But what is this?—it cometh—and it brings
A music with it—’tis the rush of wings—
A pause—and then a sweeping, falling strain,
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
The zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe
She paus’d and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss’d her golden hair
And long’d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night—and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-light dell;
Yet silence came upon material things—
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings—
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

  “Neath blue-bell or streamer—
    Or tufted wild spray
  That keeps, from the dreamer,
    The moonbeam away—
  Bright beings! that ponder,
    With half-closing eyes,
  On the stars which your wonder
    Hath drawn from the skies,
  Till they glance thro’ the shade, and
    Come down to your brow
  Like—eyes of the maiden
    Who calls on you now—
  Arise! from your dreaming
    In violet bowers,
  To duty beseeming
    These star-litten hours—
  And shake from your tresses
    Encumber’d with dew

  The breath of those kisses
    That cumber them too—
  (O! how, without you, Love!
    Could angels be blest?)
  Those kisses of true love
    That lull’d ye to rest!
  Up! shake from your wing
    Each hindering thing:
  The dew of the night—
    It would weigh down your flight;
  And true love caresses—
    O! leave them apart!
  They are light on the tresses,
    But lead on the heart.

  Ligeia! Ligeia!
    My beautiful one!
  Whose harshest idea
    Will to melody run,
  O! is it thy will
    On the breezes to toss?
  Or, capriciously still,
    Like the lone Albatross,
  Incumbent on night
    (As she on the air)
  To keep watch with delight
    On the harmony there?

  Ligeia! wherever
    Thy image may be,
  No magic shall sever
    Thy music from thee.
  Thou hast bound many eyes
    In a dreamy sleep—
  But the strains still arise
    Which thy vigilance keep—

  The sound of the rain
    Which leaps down to the flower,
  And dances again
    In the rhythm of the shower—
  The murmur that springs
    From the growing of grass
  Are the music of things—
    But are modell’d, alas!
  Away, then, my dearest,
    O! hie thee away
  To springs that lie clearest
    Beneath the moon-ray—
  To lone lake that smiles,
    In its dream of deep rest,
  At the many star-isles
  That enjewel its breast—
  Where wild flowers, creeping,
    Have mingled their shade,
  On its margin is sleeping
    Full many a maid—
  Some have left the cool glade, and
    Have slept with the bee—
  Arouse them, my maiden,
    On moorland and lea—

  Go! breathe on their slumber,
    All softly in ear,
  The musical number
    They slumber’d to hear—
  For what can awaken
    An angel so soon
  Whose sleep hath been taken
    Beneath the cold moon,
  As the spell which no slumber
    Of witchery may test,
  The rhythmical number
    Which lull’d him to rest?”

Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th’ Empyrean thro’,
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight—
Seraphs in all but “Knowledge,” the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro’ thy bounds afar,
O death! from eye of God upon that star;
Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
Sweet was that error—ev’n with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—
To them ’twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life—
Beyond that death no immortality—
But sleep that pondereth and is not “to be”—
And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
Apart from Heaven’s Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!

What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover—
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen—’mid “tears of perfect moan.”

He was a goodly spirit—he who fell:
A wanderer by mossy-mantled well—
A gazer on the lights that shine above—
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty’s hair—
And they, and ev’ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of wo)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo—
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sate he with his love—his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn’d it upon her—but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

“Ianthe, dearest, see! how dim that ray!
How lovely ’tis to look so far away!
She seemed not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls—nor mourned to leave,
That eve—that eve—I should remember well—
The sun-ray dropped, in Lemnos with a spell
On th’ Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall—
And on my eyelids—O, the heavy light!
How drowsily it weighed them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O, that light!—I slumbered—Death, the while,
Stole o’er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept—or knew that he was there.

“The last spot of Earth’******I trod upon
Was a proud temple called the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her columned wall
Then even thy glowing ***** beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I—as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view—
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wished to be again of men.”

“My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee—
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman’s loveliness—and passionate love.”
“But list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Failed, as my pennoned spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy—but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurled,
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
And rolled a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar,
And fell—not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro’
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours—
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth.”

“We came—and to thy Earth—but not to us
Be given our lady’s bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us as granted by her God—
But, Angelo, than thine gray Time unfurled
Never his fairy wing o’er fairer world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o’er the starry sea—
But when its glory swelled upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty’s bust beneath man’s eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled—as doth Beauty then!”

Thus in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
Sachin jeengar Dec 2017
Aao sathiyo Mai tumhe thoda sa vyapar sikha du
Machino ki is duniya Mai bikta Ye insan dikha du
Suraj se Brahmand tak fir Prithvi se Ye chand tak
Kahaniyo k Mai aj hazaro gulistan bicha dun
Aao sathiyo Mai....
Badal raha h waqt Ye Yaro badal rahi h duniya
Badalti is duniya Mai sambhalta Mai insan dikha du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
Hai daud yaha par paise ki paise ka mayajaal h
Hota ik pal Mai idhar udhar kaisa bedhangi kamal h
Kamaal ki is sajish ka Mai tumhe sartaaj bata du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
Tum dhund rahe the aj jise kal Mai kese mil jaega
Jo kho chuka vo ** chuka tu khud ko kese batlaega...
Mai batlata hu tumhe ab tum ko bhi Ye chaal sikha du
Aao sathiyo Mai...
« Je lui dis : La rose du jardin, comme tu sais, dure peu ;
Et la saison des roses est bien vite écoulée. »

Saadi (Gulistan ou Le jardin des roses.)


Quand l'Automne, abrégeant les jours qu'elle dévore,
Éteint leurs soirs de flamme et glace leur aurore,
Quand Novembre de brume inonde le ciel bleu,
Que le bois tourbillonne et qu'il neige des feuilles,
Ô ma muse ! en mon âme alors tu te recueilles,
Comme un enfant transi qui s'approche du feu.

Devant le sombre hiver de Paris qui bourdonne,
Ton soleil d'orient s'éclipse, et t'abandonne,
Ton beau rêve d'Asie avorte, et tu ne vois
Sous tes yeux que la rue au bruit accoutumée,
Brouillard à ta fenêtre, et longs flots de fumée
Qui baignent en fuyant l'angle noirci des toits.

Alors s'en vont en foule et sultans et sultanes,
Pyramides, palmiers, galères capitanes,
Et le tigre vorace et le chameau frugal,
Djinns au vol furieux, danses des bayadères,
L'Arabe qui se penche au cou des dromadaires,
Et la fauve girafe au galop inégal !

Alors, éléphants blancs chargés de femmes brunes,
Cités aux dômes d'or où les mois sont des lunes,
Imans de Mahomet, mages, prêtres de Bel,
Tout fuit, tout disparaît : - plus de minaret maure,
Plus de sérail fleuri, plus d'ardente Gomorrhe
Qui jette un reflet rouge au front noir de Babel !

C'est Paris, c'est l'hiver. - À ta chanson confuse
Odalisques, émirs, pachas, tout se refuse.
Dans ce vaste Paris le klephte est à l'étroit ;
Le Nil déborderait ; les roses du Bengale
Frissonnent dans ces champs où se tait la cigale ;
A ce soleil brumeux les Péris auraient froid.

Pleurant ton Orient, alors, muse ingénue,
Tu viens à moi, honteuse, et seule, et presque nue.
- N'as-tu pas, me dis-tu, dans ton coeur jeune encor
Quelque chose à chanter, ami ? car je m'ennuie
A voir ta blanche vitre où ruisselle la pluie,
Moi qui dans mes vitraux avais un soleil d'or !

Puis, tu prends mes deux mains dans tes mains diaphanes ;
Et nous nous asseyons, et, **** des yeux profanes,
Entre mes souvenirs je t'offre les plus doux,
Mon jeune âge, et ses jeux, et l'école mutine,
Et les serments sans fin de la vierge enfantine,
Aujourd'hui mère heureuse aux bras d'un autre époux.

Je te raconte aussi comment, aux Feuillantines,
Jadis tintaient pour moi les cloches argentines ;
Comment, jeune et sauvage, errait ma liberté,
Et qu'à dix ans, parfois, resté seul à la brune,
Rêveur, mes yeux cherchaient les deux yeux de la lune,
Comme la fleur qui s'ouvre aux tièdes nuits d'été.

Puis tu me vois du pied pressant l'escarpolette
Qui d'un vieux marronnier fait crier le squelette,
Et vole, de ma mère éternelle terreur !
Puis je te dis les noms de mes amis d'Espagne,
Madrid, et son collège où l'ennui t'accompagne,
Et nos combats d'enfants pour le grand Empereur !

Puis encor mon bon père, ou quelque jeune fille
Morte à quinze ans, à l'âge où l'oeil s'allume et brille.
Mais surtout tu te plais aux premières amours,
Frais papillons dont l'aile, en fuyant rajeunie,
Sous le doigt qui la fixe est si vite ternie,
Essaim doré qui n'a qu'un jour dans tous nos jours.

Le 15 novembre 1828.

— The End —