KASHMIR VALLEYS 105 



And ere the sunrise on this valley jars 

 My sense with sorrow and another day 



Through your soft magic, oh, my silver stars, 

 Turn sleep to death in your own loving way. 



The petals were finished, the song closed, the sad 

 singer moved silently away among the deepening 

 shadows, alone with his great sorrow, leaving the beloved 

 spot in the safe keeping of the silver stars. A woman 

 who had been crouching over a tiny heap that covered 

 probably some small life mourned and remembered only 

 by herself, rose to go. " Who was the singer ? " I ques- 

 tioned. She shrugged her shoulders. " How should I 

 say; he came from another country, far away among 

 other hills; he does not know our speech; we do not 

 understand his; he came with a Sahib; but loving a 

 girl of this village, he stayed here, and then she died, 

 and he now lives alone, and sings, and sprinkles flowers ; 

 that is all." With another shrug of impatience at such 

 peculiarities she moved away. Truly, our own sorrows 

 do not always unlock the springs of sympathy for others' 

 griefs. 



