Overland Monthly and Out West Magazine, Vol. 83
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| Partner: | buecher.de |
| Hersteller: | Forgotten Books (Author, Unknown) |
| Stand: | 2015-08-04 03:50:33 |
Produktbeschreibung
Excerpt from Overland Monthly and Out West Magazine, Vol. 83: January, 1925 Rivers of blood have fed the violets blue And azure skies have stormed and fed the thunder And virtue parted souls in love asunder And all enchantments have proved blessings too. Out of her window leaned Scheherazade; She leaned her cheek upon her slender hand. Upon it rubies clustered And diamonds were mustered, Snatched from the bruised hearts of many a land. A sunset hour she sat and watched the sand And ruminated on a tale to tell her lord. Mem´ry and fancy played this game with her, And yet the prize was only life in death. "I can hold lust in check with magic words," Her thin, hot lips then uttered, "Lust for blood Of ladies beautiful and innocent of all Save charm, and their charms fail where mine succeeds, - My lord in thrall to weak Scheherazade." A thousand mornings had she found release, Only to dread the coming on of night. Night-time brought rest to others, But she must rouse her mother´s Wit. Kneel before Schahriar and earn the right To tell another tale; see one more day the light. Some of those fair and fated maids she´d known Whom Schahriar had called Sultana once. They had been lovely, yielding, tender, kind. With gorgeous robes and jeweled hair were decked. They had laid all the traps to charm, entice - In vain; the sword, the Sultan´s rival, ravished all. She came with art that conquers conquerors, And built a bridge o´er peril of winged words And with a weightless ransom won a day´s release. A thousand nights had come with treacherous dark, And leaving twilight cool to Schahriar´s glaring hall, A gay procession wound. While drums and tabors sound And cymbols´ clash is heard, her footsteps fall, As firm, as soft. Yet, as she waits the call, Her heart beats wildly - Oh, to leave it all! Oh, to be back in Cashmere´s peaceful vale, To see again the rosebuds, hear the birds, A thoughtless child within her father´s house, Before that stormy night in March - a thousand years (So seemed the thousand nights) ago when life began. "Scheherazade, enter!" heralds blared. Like a gold river she swept in to him - And found the hall a place of treacherous dark. "Lights, lights, my lord," then cried Scheherazade, "I tell not tales in darkness to a king. What is this gloomy jest?" "Lady, I stand confessed." He knelt amidst the torches glimmering. "I meet defeat. Your magic conquering. I think no more of how your blood would stain Crimson the marble dais of the throne; The vintage of your mind is redder wine, I drink it at your bounty in that land Where I am subject and you reign supreme. ´Tis strange to me - the kingdom of the mind. You have a certain wisdom of the heart. The mistress of such golden qualities Is the king´s joy for aye, Scheherazade." She cast her golden robe and stood in rose. Then Schahriar came toward her in surprise; And you are beautiful, As well as dutiful. A thousand days, and you were true, my prize. The nightingale´s chaunt from the rose doth rise." He bent to lift her veil and kiss her lips. She raised her slender hand. "My mind," she said, "Rules rose and gold. I pray you spare
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