Fly to the Desert, Fly With Me
(from "lalla rookh")
Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt,
Of tents with love, or thrones without?
Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less
For flow'ring in a wilderness.
Our sands are bare, but down their slope
The silv'ry-footed antelope
As gracefully and gaily springs
As o'er the marble courts of kings.
Then come - thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.
Oh! there are lokks and tones that dart
An instant sunshine through the heart, -
As if the soul that minute caught
Some treasure it through life had sought;
As if the very lips and eyes,
Predestin'd to have all our sighs,
And never be forgot again,
Sparkled and spoke before us then!
So came thy ev'ry glance and tone
When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years.
Then fly with me, - if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.
Come, if the love thou hast for me,
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, -
Fresh as the fountain under ground,
When first 'tis by the lapwing found. [1]
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place; -
Then, fare thee well - I 'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine!
Thomas Moore . 1780-1852
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