Translated from the Sanskrit of Chauras (Chaura-panchasika, 1st century) by Powys Mathers, Love Songs of Asia, Knopf '46.

The boys' voices carried the melody up and down, simply but with richness that is in no other singing. When the record had finished, Doc wiped his hands and turned it off. He saw a book lying half under his bed and picked it up and he sat down on the bed. For a moment he read to himself but then his lips began to move and in a moment he read aloud slowly, pausing at the end of each line.

Even now I mind the coming and talking of wise men from towers Where they had thought away their youth. And I, listening, Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words, Wanton as water, honied with eagerness.

In the sink the high white foam cooled and ticked as the bubbles burst. Under the piers it was very high tide and the waves splashed on rocks they had not reached in a long time.

Even now I mind that I loved cypress and roses, clear, The great blue mountains and the small grey hills, The sounding of the sea. Upon a day I saw strange eyes and hands like butterflies; For me at morning larks flew from the thyme And children came to bathe in little streams.

Doc closed the book. He could hear the waves beat under the piles and he could hear the scampering of white rats against the wire. He went into the kitchen and felt the cooling water in the sink. He ran hot water into it. He spoke aloud to the sink and the white rats, and to himself:

Even now I know that I have savoured the hot taste of life Lifting green cups and gold at the great feast. Just for a small and a forgotten time I have had full in my eyes from off my girlThe whitest pouring of eternal light -

He wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. And the white rats scampered and scrambled in their cages. And behind the glass the rattlesnakes lay still and stared into space with their dusty, frowning eyes.

• From the final pages of Cannery Row by John Steinbeck

Notes:

While Steinbeck, to the best of my knowledge, didn't produce any poetry like Hemingway did [see # 1113 and # 976 on the Minstrels page], I suppose he enjoyed poetry quite a bit.

I was pleasently suprised a few score years ago, when I was on a Steinbeck binge, to hit the last pages of Cannery Row (which I think stands as his best book along with Travels with Charley: In Search of America) and to find myself in the middle of this lovely love song. I remember reading it out aloud to myself, adding my voice to Doc's, that night as I put away Cannery Row and went to sleep.

So add yours too, even now.