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tide. Where the Tamil and Malay tell their lore At evening--and the fates Have set no soothless canker at life's core. I want to go back and mend my heart Beneath the tropic moon, While the tamarind-tree is whispering thoughts of sleep. I want to believe that Earth again With Heaven is in tune. I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back! I want to go back to Singapore And ship along the Straits To the bungalow I left upon the strand. Where the foam of the world grows faint before It enters, and abates In meaning as I hear the palm-wind pour. I want to go back and end my days Some evening when the Cross On the southern sky hangs heavily far and sad. I want to remember when I die That life elsewhere was loss. I want to go back to Penang! I want to go back! WHEN THE WIND IS LOW (_To A. H. R._) When the wind is low, and the sea is soft, And the far heat-lightning plays On the rim of the West where dark clouds nest On a darker bank of haze; When I lean o'er the rail with you that I love And gaze to my heart's content; I know that the heavens are there above-- But you are my firmament. When the phosphor-stars are thrown from the bow And the watch climbs up the shroud; When the dim mast dips as the vessel slips Thro the foam that seethes aloud; I know that the years of our life are few, And fain as a bird to flee, That time is as brief as a drop of dew-- But you are Eternity. THE PAGODA SLAVE (_At Shwe Dagohn, in old Rangoon_) All night long the pagoda slave Hears the wind-bells high in the air Tinkle with low sweet tongue and grave In praise of Lord Gautama. All night long where the lone spire sends Its golden height to the starry light He hears their tune And watches the moon And fears he shall never reach Nirvana. Round and round by a hundred shrines Glittering at the great Shwe's base Falls the sound of his feet mid lines Droned from the sacred Wisdom. Round and round where the idols gaze So pitiless on his pained distress He passes on, Pale-eyed and wan-- A pariah like the dogs behind him. Oh, what sin in a life begot Thousands of lives ago did he sin That he is now by all forgot, Even by Lord Gautama? Oh, what sin, that the lowest shun His very name as a thing of shame-- A sound to taint The winds that faint From the high bells that hear it uttered! Midnight c
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