No others sing as you have sung Oh, Well Beloved of me! So glad you are, so lithe and young, As joyous as the sea, That dances in the golden rain The falling sunbeams fling, -- Ah, stoop and kiss me once again Then take your lute and sing. Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, Take up your lute and sing! The wind comes blowing, light and free: In all the summer isles No laughing thing it found to see As brilliant as your smiles. You are the very heart of Youth, The very Soul of Song, That lovely dream, made living truth, For which the poets long. Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, The very Soul of Song! Ah, dear and dark-eyed Lute player This joy is almost pain, To reach, when evening cools the air, Your level roof again. To see the palms, erect and slim, Against a golden sky, And hear, as twilight closes dim, The Mouddin's mournful cry, Across your songs, my Lute player, The Faithful's evening cry. Each slender finger lightly slips, To its appointed strings, Ah, the sweet scarlet, parted lips Of One Beloved, who sings! Ah, the soft radiance of eyes By love and music lit! What need of Heaven beyond the skies Since here we enter it? You make my Heaven, my Lute player, And hold the keys of it! And when the music waxes strong I hear the sound of War, The drums are throbbing in the song, The clamour and the roar. The Desert's self is in the strain, The agony of slaves, The winds that sigh, as if in pain, About forgotten graves, Oh, Lute player, my Lute player, Those lonely Desert graves! The sightless sockets, whence the eyes, Were wrenched or burnt away, The mangled form that e'er it dies, Becomes the jackals' prey, The forced caress, the purchased smile, Ere youth be yet awake, -- Ah, break your melody awhile Or else my heart will break! I sometimes think, my Lute player, You wish my heart to break! The sunset fires desert the West, The stars invade the sky, Lover of mine, 'tis time to rest And let the music die. Though Melody awake the morn Yet Love should end the day. I kiss your hand the strings have worn And take your lute away. I kiss your hand, my Lute player, And take the Lute away. At twilight on this roof of ours, So lonely and so high, We catch the scent of all the flowers Ascending to the sky. Sultan of Song, whose burning eyes Outblaze the stars above, Forget not, when the sunset dies You reign as Lord of Love! Ah, come to me, my Lute player, Lover, and Lord of Love!
Songs , opus 84
by Henry Kimball Hadley (1871 - 1937)
1. The Lute Player of Casa Blanca  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
Authorship:
- by Adela Florence Nicolson (1865 - 1904), as Laurence Hope, "The Lute Player of Casa Blanca"
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]2. The time of parting  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King's gateway.
Authorship:
- by Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941), no title, appears in Gitanjali, no. 94, first published 1912
Based on:
- a text in Bangla (Bengali) by Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941), no title, appears in গীতাঞ্জলি (Gitanjali), no. 94 [text unavailable]
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
3. If you would have it so  [sung text not yet checked]
Language: English
If you would have it so, I will end my singing. If it sets your heart aflutter, I will take away my eyes from your face. If it suddenly startles you in your walk, I will step aside and take another path. If it confuses you in your flower-weaving, I will shun your lonely garden. If it makes the water wanton and wild, I will not row my boat by your bank.
Authorship:
- by Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941), no title, appears in The Gardener, no. 47, first published 1913
Based on:
- a text in Bangla (Bengali) by Rabindranath Tagore (1861 - 1941) [text unavailable]
See other settings of this text.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]