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fit for the gods； and the gods have drunk it； the dead gods of
Etruria； two thousand years ago。 Did I say dead？ No； for the
gods are immortal； and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole。 Have I seen
them？ Yes； looking with dreaming eyes； I have found them sitting
under the olives； in their grave； strong； antique
beautyEtruscan gods！〃
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks； and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation； longs for
Nirvana； 〃then； when one comes out again into the hot sunshine
that warms one's blood； and sees the eager hurrying faces of men
and women in the street； dramatic faces over which the disturbing
experiences of life have passed and left their symbols； one's
heart thrills up into one's throat。 No； no； no； a thousand times
no！ how can one deliberately renounce this coloured； unquiet；
fiery human life of the earth？〃 And； all the time； her subtle
criticism is alert； and this woman of the East marvels at the
women of the West； 〃the beautiful worldly women of the West；〃
whom she sees walking in the Cascine； 〃taking the air so
consciously attractive in their brilliant toilettes； in the
brilliant coquetry of their manner！〃 She finds them 〃a little
incomprehensible；〃 〃profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination；〃 and asks if these 〃incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices〃 are； to us；
an essential part of their charm？ And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her； petting her as if she were a
nice child； a child or a toy； not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully： 〃How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to
be。〃
She sat in our midst； and judged us； and few knew what was
passing behind that face 〃like an awakening soul；〃 to use one of
her own epithets。 Her eyes were like deep pools； and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths。
ARTHUR SYMONS。
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly； O lightly we bear her along；
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song；
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream；
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream。
Gaily； O gaily we glide and we sing；
We bear her along like a pearl on a string。
Softly； O softly we bear her along；
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song；
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide；
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride。
Lightly； O lightly we glide and we sing；
We bear her along like a pearl on a string。
WANDERING SINGERS
（Written to one of their Tunes）
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet；
Through echoing forest and echoing street；
With lutes in our hands ever…singing we roam；
All men are our kindred； the world is our home。
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed；
The laughter and beauty of women long dead；
The sword of old battles； the crown of old kings；
And happy and simple and sorrowful things。
What hope shall we gather； what dreams shall we sow？
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go。
No love bids us tarry； no joy bids us wait：
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate。
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers； weaving at break of day；
Why do you weave a garment so gay？ 。 。 。
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild；
We weave the robes of a new…born child。
Weavers； weaving at fall of night；
Why do you weave a garment so bright？ 。 。 。
Like the plumes of a peacock； purple and green；
We weave the marriage…veils of a queen。
Weavers； weaving solemn and still；
What do you weave in the moonlight chill？ 。 。 。
White as a feather and white as a cloud；
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud。
COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise； brothers； rise； the wakening skies pray
to the morning light；
The wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn
like a child that has cried all night。
Come； let us gather our nets from the shore；
and set our catamarans free；
To capture the leaping wealth of the tide； for
we are the sons of the sea。
No longer delay； let us hasten away in the
track of the sea…gull's call；
The sea is our mother； the cloud is our brother；
the waves are our comrades all。
What though we toss at the fall of the sun
where the hand of the sea…god drives？
He who holds the storm by the hair； will hide
in his breast our lives。
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade； and
the scent of the mango grove；
And sweet are the sands at the full o' the
moon with the sound of the voices we love。
But sweeter； O brothers； the kiss of the spray
and the dance of the wild foam's glee：
Row； brothers； row to the blue of the verge；
where the low sky mates with the sea。
THE SNAKE…CHARMER
Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute…call？
In what moonlight…tangled meshes of perfume；
Where the clustering keovas guard the squirrel's slumber；
Where the deep woods glimmer with the jasmine's bloom？
I'll feed thee； O beloved； on milk and wild red honey；
I'll bear thee in a basket of rushes； green and white；
To a palace…bower where golden…vested maidens
Thread with mellow laughter the petals of delight。
Whither dost thou loiter； by what murmuring hollows；
Where oleanders scatter their ambrosial fire？
Come； thou subtle bride of my mellifluous wooing；
Come； thou silver…breasted moonbeam of desire！
CORN…GRINDERS
O LITTLE MOUSE； WHY DOST THOU CRY
WHILE MERRY STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY？
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead！
Ah； who will ease my bitter pain？
He went to seek a millet…grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed；
They caught him in a baited snare；
And slew my lover unaware：
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead。
O LITTLE DEER； WHY DOST THOU MOAN；
HID IN THY FOREST…BOWER ALONE？
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead！
Ah！ who will quiet my lament？
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river…head；
A waiting hunter threw his dart；
And struck my lover through the heart。
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead。
O LITTLE BRIDE； WHY DOST THOU WEEP
WITH ALL THE HAPPY WORLD ASLEEP？
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead！
Ah； who will stay these hungry tears；
Or still the want of famished years；
And crown with love my marriage…bed？
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre：
Alas！ alas！ my lord is dead。
VILLAGE…SONG
Honey； child； honey； child； whither are you
going？
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes
blowing？
Would you leave the mother who on golden
grain has fed you？
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth
to wed you？
Mother mine； to the wild forest I am going；
Where upon the champa boughs the champa
buds are blowin