the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;

The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the bill. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;
And all the feathered tribe, by gentle sleep subdued,
Roost in the glade and hang their drooping wings."
--Translation by Colonel Mure.

"Now, dearest, where is my kiss?"

"I had forgotten it in listening, just as before I forgot to listen in
kissing."

"You are too bad. But tell me, is not my song lovely?"

"Yes, beautiful, like everything else you sing."

"And the Greek poets write?"

"Yes, there you are right too, I admit."

"Are there no poets in Persia?"

"How can you ask such a question? How could a nation, who despised song,
pretend to any nobility of feeling?"

"But you have some very bad customs."

"Well?"

"You take so many wives."

"My Sappho . . ."

"Do not misunderstand me. I love you so much, that I have no other wish
than to see you happy and be allowed to be always with you. If, by taking
me for your only wife, you would outrage the laws of your country, if you
would thereby expose yourself to contempt, or even blame, (for who could
dare to despise my Bartja!) then take other wives; but let me have you,
for myself alone, at least two, or perhaps even three years. Will you
promise this, Bartja?"

"I will."

"And then, when my time has passed, and you must yield to the customs of
your country (for it will not be love that leads you to bring home a
second wife), then let me be the first among your slaves. Oh! I have
pictured that so delightfully to myself. When you go to war I shall set
the tiara on your head, gird on the sword, and place the lance in your
hand; and when you return a conqueror, I shall be the first to crown you
with the wreath of victory. When you ride out to the chase, mine will be
the duty of buckling on your spurs, and when you go to the banquet, of
adorning and anointing you, winding the garlands of poplar and roses and
twining them around your forehead and shoulders. If wounded, I will be
your nurse; will never stir from your side if you are ill, and when I see
you happy will retire, and feast my eyes from afar on your glory and
happiness. Then perchance you will call me to your side, and your kiss