when we embroidered the hills with kisses... and other games, wading in the dew, plunged deep among the trees. I said to her: God! how precious they are, those memories... days when we were like the sparrows, all song and evening talk, and I would snatch the kiss from a lip... an innocent one..."
Abridged
"A story — ours... and at every rose there is news... If ever you are asked, say: it was we who rounded the moon."
*
Nasima has made me alive to the fact that love poetry in woman's hands is other than it is in man's. For though both of them — the poet and the poetess — keep the alluring idea and the refined vitality in this color of living literature, woman's love poetry is purer in atmosphere and clearer of surface than man's; while this clarity and that purity do not rob it of its enchanting horizon, shaded with colors and brimming with melodies. Nor does the sanctity of the chaste idea in woman blunt its esthetic edge; for in that atmosphere which only eyes can reach by gazing, and only hearts by throbbing, there are bewitching worlds, searing gusts, and moist breaths, through which the man-poet's imagination is powerless to roam, to create and to invent.
For woman, by her very nature — delicate of sense, wide of imagination, chaste of inclination, loyal to the furthest limits of loyalty — can outstrip man in this field; and in Fadwa Tuqan, Nazik al-Mala'ika, and Salma Khadra Jayyusi we have the greatest proof of woman's love poetry, with its lofty eloquence and its brilliant freshness, in which there is so much of the magic of femininity, the depth of vitality, and the manifoldness of subject.
And who knows — perhaps my little Nasima, this girl who makes a critic of me in spite of myself, will one day be a poetess — for all her hatred of meters and of the single rhyme — but after the pattern of our unfettered poetesses. And who knows, again? Perhaps she
will never one day be overcome in her own affairs, as her mother was overcome, and so invented for herself an ideal existence... because — so it appears — she will have invented herself within this existence long since, and will not have ceased inventing.
And then — what shall I be to her, and how shall I stand in her regard? The answer to that lies, without a doubt, with the days, in that immense sea of values and measures, of new conceptions, and the clash of ideas.
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