Request

Give me your self one hour; I do not crave
For any love, or even thought, of me.
Come, as a Sultan may caress a slave
And then forget for ever, utterly.

Come! as west winds, that passing, cool and wet,
O'er desert places, leave them fields in flower
And all my life, for I shall not forget,
Will keep the fragrance of that perfect hour!




Story of Udaipore:
Told by Lalla-ji, the Priest

"And when the Summer Heat is great,
And every hour intense,
The Moghra, with its subtle flowers,
Intoxicates the sense."

The Coco palms stood tall and slim, against the golden-glow,
And all their grey and graceful plumes were waving to and fro.