oman.

"The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here,"
replied the young ascetic.

XXXVIII

This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.

Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of
storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting
out all stars from my sky.

Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep
away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from
end to end.

This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love,
never the cold apathy of death.

XXXIX

The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts in.
Victory, O Light!

The heart of the night is pierced!

With your flashing sword cut in twain the tangle of doubt and
feeble desires!

Victory!

Come, Implacable!

Come, you who are terrible in your whiteness.

O Light, your drum sounds in the march of fire, and the red torch
is held on high; death dies in a burst of splendour!

XL

O fire, my brother, I sing victory to you.

You are the bright red image of fearful freedom.

You swing your arms in the sky, you sweep your impetuous fingers
across the harp-string, your dance music is beautiful.

When my days are ended and the gates are opened you will burn to
ashes this cordage of hands and feet.

My body will be one with you, my heart will be caught in the
whirls of your frenzy, and the burning heat that was my life will
flash up and mingle itself in your flame.

XLI

The Boatman is out crossing the wild sea at night.

The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the
violent wind.

Stung with the night's fang the sky falls upon the sea, poisoned
with black fear.

The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the
Boatman is out crossing the wild sea.

The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the
night with the sudden white of his sails.

I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent
courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in
the dust and waits.

What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor
darkness?

Is it heavy with gems and pearls?

Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white
rose in his hand and a song on his lips.

It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning.

She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind
and hides her eyes.

The storm shrieks