Adela Florence Nicolson

I would have rather felt you round my throat Crushing out life, than waving me farewell!

Pale hands I loved beside the Shalimar. Where are you now? Who lies beneath your spell? Whom do you lead on Rapture's roadway, far, Before you agonise them in farewell?

Less than the weed that grows beside thy door

Less than the dust beneath thy chariot wheel, Less than the rust that never stained thy sword,