KASHMIR VALLEYS 143 



good wishes and snatches of melody. We paddled home 

 on a golden flood, sky and water dyed to an unearthly 

 brilliance by the setting sun. The islets in the lake 

 were scarcely less radiant than the tiny pink and purple- 

 puffed cloudlets that were drifting away from the 

 central glory in the west behind Hari Parbat, while far 

 away to the southward the Pir Panjal showed their 

 rose-stained snows, and nearer Haramuk, steep and 

 solitary, towered against the evening sky. 



From a gay boat-load rose the sounds of a song of 

 love and flowers, accompanied by the light twanging of 

 tiny stringed instruments 



The evening air is very sweet, from off the island bowers 

 Come scents of moghra* trees in bloom and choicest Persian flowers. 

 The moghra flowers that smell so sweet, 



When Love's young fancies play, 

 The acrid moghra flowers, still sweet, 

 Though Love is burnt away. 



The boat goes drifting uncontrolled, the rowers row no more, 

 They deftly turn the slender prow towards the further shore. 

 The moghra flowers, the moghra flowers, 



While youth's quick pulses play, 

 They are so sweet, they still are sweet, 

 Though passion burns away. 



silver lake and silver night and tender silver sky, 

 Where, as the hours so swiftly pass, the moon rides white and high. 

 Ah ! moghra flowers, sweet moghra flowers, 



So dear to youth at play, 

 Ah ! sweet and subtle moghra flowers, 

 That only last a day. 



* " Moghra," the large double jessamine. 



