Darkling, he fixed Malua with his eyes,
Noting each shadow of his changing thoughts,
When the dear dreams centred on Taka, dreams
Dimming his sight. Holding his lips apart,
He slowly rose, Uhila following,
For in the dark the music of her face
Smote on the boy till he could bear no more
The feasting and the firelight; silently
He rose and stole away. The night was still,
And "Taka, Taka, Taka," rang his soul
Against the stars. He felt infinity
Above him brood, and knew the mighty gods,
Who once in every lifetime drop an hour
Of their remembrance fraught with godlike bliss
To luckless man, had turned on him their eyes.
Unconsciously his feet retraced the path
To the dark pool where joy had birth that day.
The scents that wake when the cool dusk begins
Lapped him luxuriously; the heavy sweet
Of passionate gardenia,--kiss made flower,--
White as his turbulent love, was as the crown
And climax of the jasmine stars that breathed
His love in placid day, and when he paused
Beside the pool, the forest held its breath.

"O sweet, O beautiful!" Malua cried,
His young eyes blazing to the tropic night.
"Never before, since all the gods were young,
Was woman loved as I love Taka." Then,
Caught in a very ecstasy of love,
He laid his arms about a slender tree,
White in the moonlight, and his fevered cheek
Pressed on its cooling stem. With broken music
Shaken from his breast, he cried on Taka,--
Little happy words that mothers whisper
Above their sleeping babes. "If love could find
A way to utter love without her lips!"
Her lips, her eyes, the music of her voice--
Death would be easy on her golden heart.
He pictured her at twilight in the door
Of their far home, with eager arms outstretched
To welcome him from toil; how she would stand
A queen among the other women, crowned
With crimson flowers. How had he won her, he
A stranger to her people and her blood!
For in her veins the stream ran pale, but, "Ah,"
He cried, "my kiss shall burn it red again.
White she may be, a queen, my queen, she is,
And still my slave in fetters of my love."

Uhila watched him from the shadow.
Gods!
How young he was! as Vave, the swift-footed
Splendidly strong, an innocent god of war.
The morn with chilly lips laid myriad kisses
About his beauty, slipped thro' jealous leaves
Dripping with silver and fantastic fingers
Reached to caress him from the amorous trees.
Hither and forth he paced; Uhila's eyes
Ached with his hatred of the sig