In The Tents Of Akbar

In the tents of Akbar     Are dole and grief to-day,     For the flower of all the Indies     Has gone the silent way.     In the tents of Akbar     Are emptiness and gloom,     And where the dancers gather,     The silence of the tomb.     Across the yellow desert,     Across the burning sands,     Old Akbar wanders madly,     And wrings his fevered hands.     And ever makes his moaning     To the unanswering sky,     For Sutna, lovely Sutna,     Who was so fair to die.     For Sutna danced at morning,     And Sutna danced at eve;     Her dusky eyes half hidden     Behind her silken sleeve.     Her pearly teeth out-glancing     Between her coral lips,     The tremulous rhythm of passion     Marked by her quivering hips.     As lovely as a jewel     Of fire and dewdrop blent,     So danced the maiden Sutna     In gallant Akbar's tent.     And one who saw her dancing,     Saw her bosom's fall and rise     Put all his body's yearning     Into his lovelit eyes.     Then Akbar came and drove him--     A jackal--from his door,     And bade him wander far and look     On Sutna's face no more.     Some day the sea disgorges,     The wilderness gives back,     Those half-dead who have wandered,     Aimless, across its track.     And he returned--the lover,     Haggard of brow and spent;     He found fair Sutna standing     Before her master's tent.     "Not mine, nor Akbar's, Sutna!"     He cried and closely pressed,     And drove his craven dagger     Straight to the maiden's breast.     Oh, weep, oh, weep, for Sutna,     So young, so dear, so fair,     Her face is gray and silent     Beneath her dusky hair.     And wail, oh, wail, for Akbar,     Who walks the desert sands,     Crying aloud for Sutna,     Wringing his fevered hands.     In the tents of Akbar     The tears of sorrow run,     But the corpse of Sutna's slayer,     Lies rotting in the sun.