The Wisdom of the East Series
Edited by
L. CRANMER-BYNG
Dr. S. A. KAPADIA

ANTHOLOGY OF
MODERN INDIAN POETRY
All Rights Reserved

WISDOM OF THE EAST

ANTHOLOGY OF
MODERN INDIAN
POETRY

EDITED BY
GWENDOLINE GOODWIN

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W
First Edition, 1927
Printed in Great Britain by
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

Francis Bacon it was who said, “Prefaces are great wastes of time, and tho’ they seem to proceed of modesty, they are bravery.” It is necessary, however, in the present instance to make a stand against the somewhat sweeping convictions of the Elizabethan master. The call of Youth in India is a hot young call, trumpeting down the ages through a maze of polytheistic tribute, and emerging in the twentieth century with some of its original clearness of sound drowned by a Gargantuan thunder of Western drums. The Indian poet of to-day is torn, like the Indian painter, between admiration for Western models and a desire to mould himself thereon, and an inherent Indian tradition that runs in his veins and will not be denied. Indeed, it is pity to deny it. Sir Edmund Gosse persuaded Sarojini Naidu to tear up her poems about English life and to write of her own Indian bazaars and cities, villages and festivals, for which persuasion we are indeed indebted to Sir Edmund. We of the West do not want from the East poetic edifices built upon a foundation of Yeats and Shelley and Walt Whitman. We want genuine Taj Mahals and Juma Masjids, cameos of rural sweetness and the hopes of faithful hearts. We want to hear the flute of Krishna as Radha heard it, to fall under the spell of the blue god “in the lotus-heart of dreams.” For there is much to learn from the melody of Eastern thought. It is, perhaps, a minor melody born of the mating of Love and Death, but it has its seed in an innate spiritual rapture that no Western veneer can wholly cover.

In the bulk of Indian poetry religious feeling predominates, as is only natural in a country of many but steadfast faiths.

“To act, to think, to feel aright until
He knows his will as one with Allah’s will.”

Subjugation of the Self leading to a merging of that Self with God. India writes largely from the “Inner Vision.” This disallows of foreign influence, but the poet is necessarily inspired as well by an everyday atmosphere which he enriches from the strength of his own perception. The steps of the bathing-ghâts in Calcutta may be of Sheffield cast-iron, but the country that could produce a Taj Mahal—“stone turned into a dream,” D. G. Mukerji calls it—will never lose the innate artistic vision of her soul. So the creative prayers of this mighty cosmopolitan multitude surge upwards in a song of glory till they reach the stars. Love of life is love of art because life is art and art is life. We chase after fleeting perfection, a rosy cloud, a glint of eternity in a lily-pool, a drop of dew trembling on a flower-petal, moments of heaven in worlds of chaos. To catch a mood of Nature and transfer it to paper; to wring from the heart of an instrument one swift emotional phase after another: is it futile? is it useless?

“Am I one of the trees in the night,
Or are the trees human beings?”

asks Harindranath Chattopadhyaya in one of his poems not published here, echoing the cry of Li Po:

“Chuang Chou in a dream became a butterfly
And the butterfly became Chuang Chou at waking:
Which was the real, the butterfly or the man?”

In Indian poetry, the mystic element shines through the outer decorative aspect.

“Our dreams and longings cover deeper dreams
And longings in the silence far away.”

We are roused from the beautiful lyrical lilt of Chattopadhyaya and of his sister, Sarojini Naidu, by the thunder of Muhammad Iqbal’s persuasive eloquence. He is a barrister-at-law at Lahore, an active Moslem opposed to Platonic illusion and non-progressive idealism.

“Plato, the prime ascetic and sage,
Was one of that ancient flock of sheep.
His Pegasus went astray in the darkness of philosophy
And galloped over the mountains of Being.
He was so fascinated by the Ideal
That he made head, eye, and ear of no account.”

Whether one agrees with his outlook or not, the fact remains that one cannot fail to be stirred by the intensely fiery spirit of Iqbal’s rhetorical writing. He is a leader. He sweeps everything before him like a great wind swirling through a forest of pines. He would re-create Islam, an active, non-Imperialistic, non-sensual Islam. In his own words, he is “the voice of the poet of To-morrow.” As Mr. R. A. Nicholson (his translator) says, the book “Asrar-i-Khudi” (Secrets of the Self), from which I have taken the extracts, “presents certain obscurities which no translation can entirely remove.” That is, of course, to European readers or to those not conversant with Persian poetry. For the book was originally written in Persian.

“Although the language of Hind is sweet as sugar,
Yet sweeter is the fashion of Persian speech.”

He is an inspiring philosopher.

“Thou art fire: fill the world with thy glow!
Make others burn with thy burning!
. . . . . .
Up, and re-inspire every living soul!”

I have spoken of the Youth of India, but the contributors to this volume range in age from the twenties to the seventies. There is little need for me to speak of Rabindranath Tagore. Mr. Edward Thompson (to whom I am indebted for the three translations) has acted in a Boswellian capacity, and the poet is as well known in England as are the great poets of our own nationality. I would draw attention, however, to the beautiful concluding lines of “Urvasi”:

“On the night of full moon, when the world brims with laughter,
Memory, from somewhere far away, pipes a flute that brings unrest,
The tears gush out!
Yet in that weeping of the spirit Hope wakes and lives;
Ah, Unfettered One!”

The flute-call of memory bringing restlessness and a strange peace on its liquid cadences. And a dimness of tears to stir the dust of Hope to life. “Ah, Unfettered One!” I have included some translations of Indian songs as sung by native singers, because I thought they might be of interest from an indigenous point of view. Dr. Ananda Coomaraswamy, of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Mass., is responsible for their English rendering. The one commencing “Quietly come, O Beauty, come,” has a mystical meaning. We drift then into the Punjab, the Land of Five Waters, and find Puran Singh, the Sikh poet, breathing the musk of God-love through nostrils ever open to receive a spiritual fragrance.

“The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.”

It blows the perfume of the Beauty that is Worship into the heart of this devout enthusiast. His mind is a casket that holds the most precious gems of the Sikh religion and ideals, and gives them forth to an unenlightened world. Nanak, Gobind, Teg Bahadur, the names of the Ten Masters (whose lives he has written) sound in his ears day and night.

The loneliness of exile rings through the quivering poems of Manmohan Ghose.

“Lost is that country, and all but forgotten
’Mid these chill breezes ...”

All true poets love trees; Manmohan Ghose is no exception:

“Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,
Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver.”

Mrs. Pankajini Basu is represented by one poem, “Basanta Panchami,” a description of the famous Spring Festival. One line, in particular, stands out: “Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred, are we women of Bengal, all of us,” and, one might add, ever devout, ever faithful. The eternal question of Indian womanhood cannot be dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders. Mrs. Naidu’s lines:

“What further need hath she of loveliness
Whom Death hath parted from her lord’s caress?”

seem to strike at the heart of the matter. Time alone will solve a problem which at the moment is very vexed indeed. It would seem almost that in their poems these Indian women express all the fullness of their hearts in love-songs, hymns of conjugal devotion, lamentations, praise of physical beauty, and tributes of faith. Emotional outlets of warm, loyal natures, yet always with the underlying sadness that is the birthright of Hind, like an anthem at evening or the eyes of a convent sister. Melancholy glides like pearly vapour through “The Island Grave” of Sri Aurobindo Ghose:

“And I will meet thee in that lonely place,
Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days
And death admit me to the silent ways.”

Death, to the Oriental, is a small and yet a great matter. He welcomes rather than fears it. The body, being but the shell of the soul, is of little account, save, perhaps, for its procreative value as a creator of further beings in the image of God. Death, then, is a joyful thing, and there is but a thin line between the wedding-song and the funeral dirge.

The blue bird of truth is flying against a sky of such intense blueness as to be almost indistinguishable—Ananda Acharya’s “blue of Indra.” This poet sends his “snow-blossoms” of Indian thought forth from the cool earth of Norway. He lives there amid his “Arctic Swallows,” and in his later work has grafted Asian feeling, in a curious way, upon a shoot of Scandinavian origin. There is, of course, a strange affinity between the Nordic peoples and the Asian. The strain flowed through Northern Russia, south to Persia, and thence into India, the type gradually changing from blue-eyed, fair-skinned folk to olive skins and “flaming eyes, like thunder skies. So deep and dark....”

Jehangir Jivaji Vakil’s three little poems have not hitherto been published. The one commencing “O long black hair of love” has an almost Japanese brevity, and compresses into four lines quite a wealth of ardent feeling.

India is rich in legendary history and does not lack for romantic and dramatic episodes in her actual chronicles. I have, nevertheless, found little of the narrative style of poetry among the modern poets. Historical and legendary references are occasionally met with, but they are usually incidental, and little use has been made of a richly-equipped storehouse. Adi K. Sett has utilised this method in “Roshanara,” Inayat Khan in “Tansen,” and Tagore (in a measure) in “Urvasi.” Apparently the lyrical style or the sonnet-form has the greatest appeal.

Narayan Vaman Tilak was a Christian mystic. His poems breathe all the fervour of the convert.

“Saith Dasa, Christ, upon Thy pallet-bed
Grant me a little space to lay my head.”

I have included Zahir, Ghalib, and Amir, because, though not modern in a strict sense, as is, say, Fredoon Kabraji, they have been translated by living people, namely, Mrs. J. D. Westbrook and Pir-o-Murshid Inayat Khan.

Whether this is the dawn-time of a new era of Indian poetic thought, who shall say? These Eastern singers, Bengali, Punjabi, Hindu, Mohammedan, Sikh, Christian, have upon their shoulders a yoke of heavy responsibility. They have to support and become worthy of the mighty tradition that lies behind them. Song should be theirs naturally, but it is one thing to preserve the metre in their own particular tongues and another to wrestle with the technicalities of English. There are many more modern poets in India from whom I might have chosen, but the scope of the book forbids the inclusion of more material.

The Indian twilight descends, gentle and swift, “wizard clocks ring out and rend the calm.” The dark rich blue of night, peridot-studded, swings a baby-moon high above inky palm and gleaming tomb. The poet sits in contemplation. “The lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of day....”

Gwendoline Goodwin.

Sheffield,
December 8th, 1926.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I beg to acknowledge indebtedness to the following for permissions accorded to reproduce poems:

1. Oxford University Press (Heritage of India Series). (Poems by Indian Women.)

Professor Farquhar, of Manchester University.
Mrs. Margaret Macnicol, Miss D. Whitehouse.

2. Messrs. William Heinemann, Ltd.

Mrs. Sarojini Naidu.
“The Golden Threshold.”
“The Broken Wing.”
“The Bird of Time.”

3. Blackwell (Oxford)

Poems of Manmohan Ghose.
Mr. Laurence Binyon.

4. “Poetry Review” (Mr. Galloway Kyle)

Poems by Mrs. Elsa Kazi.

5. Longmans, Green & Co.

Nanikram Vasanmal Thadani.
“Krishna’s Flute”

6. Adi K. Sett.

“Roshanara.”

7. Srinavasa Varadachari & Co.

Sonnets.
Prof. P. Seshadri, of Benares Hindu University.

8. Indian Press, Ltd. (Allahabad)

Prof. P. Seshadri.
“Vanished Hours.”
“Champak Leaves.”

9. The Sufi Movement (Southampton)

Inayat Khan and Mrs. Jessie Duncan Westbrook.
“Diwan.”
Hindustani Lyrics.

10. J. M. Dent & Sons, Ltd.

Puran Singh and Bhai Vir Singh.
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel.”
“Nargas.”

11. Jehangir Jivaji Vakil.

(Three poems hitherto unpublished.)

12. Messrs. Ernest Benn, Ltd.

(Augustan Books of Modern Poetry.)
Poems of Rabindranath Tagore.
Mr. Edward Thompson.
Mr. C. F. Andrews.

13. Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd.

“The Secrets of the Self.”
Muhammad Iqbal (Lahore).
Mr. R. A. Nicholson.
Sri Ananda Acharya.
“Book of the Cave” (see Notes).

14. The Brahmakul Gaurisankar (Alvdal, Norway)

Sri Ananda Acharya.
“Saki.”
“Usarika.”

15. Theosophical Publishing House (Adyar, Madras)

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.
“Feast of Youth.”

Shama’a, Madras

“Out of the Deep Dark Mould.”
“Magic Tree.”

16. Fredoon Kabraji.

17. Messrs. Luzac & Co.

Thirty Indian Songs.
Ananda Coomaraswamy.

18. Association Press (Calcutta)

Poems of Narayan Vaman Tilak.
Mr. D. N. Tilak (Copyright of Marathi originals).
Rev. J. C. Winslow.

19. Sri Aurobindo Ghose (Pondicherry).

EDITORIAL NOTE

The object of the Editors of this series is a very definite one. They desire above all things that, in their humble way, these books shall be the ambassadors of good-will and understanding between East and West—the old world of Thought and the new of Action. In this endeavour, and in their own sphere, they are but followers of the highest example in the land. They are confident that a deeper knowledge of the great ideals and lofty philosophy of Oriental thought may help to a revival of that true spirit of Charity which neither despises nor fears the nations of another creed and colour.

L. CRANMER-BYNG.
S. A. KAPADIA.

Northbrook Society,
Imperial Institute,
S.W.7.

ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN INDIAN POETRY

AN INVOCATION

O, Thou art as the soul in the body of the universe,
Thou art our soul and Thou art ever fleeing from us.
Thou breathest music into Life’s lute;
Life envies Death when death is for thy sake.
Once more bring comfort to our sad hearts!
Once more dwell in our breasts!
Once more let us hear Thy call to honour!
Strengthen our weak love.

We are oft complaining of destiny,
Thou art of great price and we have naught.
Hide not Thy fair face from the empty-handed!
Sell cheap the love of Salman and Bilál!
Give us the sleepless eye and the passionate heart!
Give us again the nature of quicksilver!
Show unto us one of Thy manifest signs,
That the necks of our enemies may be bowed!
Make this chaff a mountain crested with fire,
Burn with our fire all that is not God!
When the people let the clue of Unity go from their hands,
They fell into a hundred mazes.
We are dispersed like stars in the world;
Though of the same family, we are strange to one another.
Bind again these scattered leaves,
Revive the law of love!
Take us back to serve Thee as of old,
Commit Thy cause to them that love thee!
We are travellers: give us devotion as our goal!
Give us the strong faith of Abraham!
Make us know the meaning of “There is no god”!
Make us acquainted with the mystery of “except Allah”!
I, who burn like a candle for the sake of others,
Teach myself to weep like the candle.
O God! a tear that is heart-enkindling,
Passionful, wrung forth by pain, peace-consuming,
May I sow in the garden, and may it grow into a fire
That washes away the firebrand from the tulip’s robe!
My heart is with yestereve, my eye is on to-morrow:
Amidst the company I am alone.
“Everyone fancies he is my friend,
But my secret thoughts have not escaped from my heart.”
O, where in the wide world is my comrade?
I am the Bush of Sinai: where is my Moses?
I am tyrannous, I have done many a wrong to myself,
I have nourished a flame in my bosom,
A flame that seized the furniture of judgment,
And cast fire on the skirt of discretion,
And lessened with madness the reason,
And burned up the existence of knowledge:
Its blaze enthrones the sun in the sky,
And lightnings encircle it with adoration for ever.
Mine eye fell to weeping, like dew,
Since I was entrusted with that hidden fire.
I taught the candle to burn openly,
While I myself burned unseen by the world’s eye.
At last flames breathed from every hair of me,
Fire dropped from the veins of my thought:
My nightingale picked up the spark-grains
And created a fire-tempered song.
Is the breast of this age without a heart?
Majnún trembles lest Lailá’s howdah be empty.
It is not easy for the candle to throb alone:
Ah! is there no moth worthy of me?
How long shall I wait for one to share my grief?
How long must I search for a confidant?
O Thou whose face lends light to the moon and the stars,
Withdraw Thy fire from my soul!
Take back what Thou hast put in my breast,
Remove the stabbing radiance from my mirror,
Or give me one old comrade
To be the mirror of mine all-burning love!
In the sea wave tosses side by side with wave:
Each hath a partner in its emotion.
In heaven star consorts with star,
And the bright moon lays her head on the knees of Night.
Morning touches Night’s dark side,
And To-day throws itself against To-morrow.
One river loses its being in another,
A waft of air dies in perfume.
There is dancing in every nook of the wine-house,
Madman dances with madman.
Howbeit in Thine essence Thou art single,
Thou hast decked out for Thyself a whole world.
I am as the tulip of the field,
In the midst of a company I am alone.
I beg of Thy grace a sympathising friend,
An adept in the mysteries of my nature,
A friend endowed with madness and wisdom,
One that knoweth not the phantom of vain things,
That I may confide my lament to his soul
And see again my face in his heart.
His image I will mould of mine own clay,
I will be to him both idol and worshipper.

Muhammad Iqbal.

THE SECRETS OF THE SELF

Prologue

When the world-illuming sun rushed upon Night like a brigand,
My weeping bedewed the face of the rose,
My tears washed away sleep from the eye of the narcissus,
My passion wakened the grass and made it grow.
The Gardener taught me to sing with power,
He sowed a verse and reaped a sword.
In the soil he planted only the seed of my tears,
And wove my lament with the garden, as warp and woof.
Tho’ I am but a mote, the radiant sun is mine:
Within my bosom are a hundred dawns.
My dust is brighter than Jamshid’s cup,
It knows things that are yet unborn in the world.
My thought hunted down and slung from the saddle a deer
That has not yet leaped forth from the covert of non-existence.
Fair is my garden ere yet the leaves are green:
Full-blown roses are hidden in the skirt of my garment.
I struck dumb the musicians where they were gathered together,
I smote the heartstrings of all that heard me,
Because the lute of my genius hath a rare melody:
Even to comrades my song is strange.
I am born in the world as a new sun,
I have not learned the ways and fashions of the sky:
Not yet have the stars fled before my splendour,
Not yet is my quicksilver astir;
Untouched is the sea by my dancing rays,
Untouched are the mountains by my crimson hue.
The eye of existence is not familiar with me;
I rise trembling, afraid to show myself.
From the East my dawn arrived and routed Night,
A fresh dew settled on the rose of the world.
I am waiting for the votaries that rise at dawn:
Oh, happy they who shall worship my fire!
I have no need of the ear of To-day,
I am the voice of the poet of To-morrow.
My own age does not understand my deep meanings;
My Joseph is not for this market.
I despair of my old companions,
My Sinai burns for sake of the Moses who is coming.
Their sea is silent, like dew,
But my dew is storm-ridden, like the ocean.
My song is of another world than theirs:
This bell calls other travellers to take the road.
How many a poet after his death
Opened our eyes when his own were closed,
And journeyed forth again from nothingness
When roses blossomed o’er the earth of his grave!
Albeit caravans have passed through this desert,
They passed, as a camel steps, with little sound.
But I am a lover: loud crying is my faith:
The clamour of Judgment Day is one of my minions.
My song exceeds the range of the chord,
Yet I do not fear that my lute will break.
’Twere better for the waterdrop not to know my torrent,
Whose fury should rather madden the sea.
No river will contain my Oman:
My flood requires whole seas to hold it.
Unless the bud expand into a bed of roses,
It is unworthy of my spring-cloud’s bounty.
Lightnings slumber within my soul,
I sweep over mountain and plain.
Wrestle with my sea, if thou art a plain;
Receive my lightning, if thou art a Sinai.
The Fountain of Life hath been given me to drink,
I have been made an adept of the mystery of Life.
The speck of dust was vitalised by my burning song:
It unfolded wings and became a firefly.
No one hath told the secret which I will tell
Or threaded a pearl of thought like mine.
Come, if thou wouldst know the secret of everlasting life!
Come, if thou wouldst win both earth and heaven!
The old Guru of the Sky taught me this lore,
I cannot hide it from my comrades.
O Saki! arise and pour wine into the cup,
Clear the vexation of Time from my heart!
The sparkling liquor that flows from Zemzem—
Were it a beggar, a king would pay homage to it.
It makes thought more sober and wise,
It makes the keen eye keener,
It gives to a straw the weight of a mountain,
And to foxes the strength of lions.
It causes dust to soar to the Pleiades
And a drop of water swell to the breadth of the sea.
It turns silence into the din of Judgment Day,
It makes the foot of the partridge red with blood of the hawk.
Arise and pour pure wine into my cup,
Pour moonbeams into the dark night of my thought,
That I may lead home the wanderer
And imbue the idle looker-on with restless impatience;
And advance hotly on a new quest
And become known as the champion of a new spirit;
And be to people of insight as the pupil to the eye,
And sink into the ear of the world, like a voice;
And exalt the worth of Poesy
And sprinkle the dry herbs with my tears.
Inspired by the genius of the Master of Rum,
I rehearse the sealed book of secret lore.
His soul is the source of the flames,
I am but as the spark that gleams for a moment.
His burning candle consumed me, the moth;
His wine overwhelmed my goblet.
The Master of Rum transmuted my earth to gold
And clothed my barren dust with beauty.
The grain of sand set forth from the desert,
That it might win the radiance of the sun.
I am a wave, and I will come to rest in his sea,
That I may make the glistening pearl mine own.
I who am drunken with the wine of his song
Will draw life from the breath of his words.
’Twas night: my heart would fain lament,
The silence was filled with my cries to God.
I was complaining of the sorrows of the world
And bewailing the emptiness of my cup.
At last mine eye could endure no more,
Broken with fatigue it went to sleep.
There appeared the Master, formed in the mould of Truth,
Who wrote the Koran of Persia.
He said, “O frenzied lover,
Take a draught of love’s pure wine.
Strike the chords of thine heart and rouse a tumultuous strain,
Dash thine head against the cupping-glass and thine eye against the lancet!
Make thy laughter the source of a hundred sighs,
Make the hearts of men bleed with thy tears!
How long wilt thou be silent, like a bud?
Sell thy fragrance cheap, like the rose!
Tongue-tied, thou art in pain:
Cast thyself upon the fire, like rue!
Like the bell, break silence at last, and from every limb
Utter forth a lamentation!
Thou art fire: fill the world with thy glow!
Make others burn with thy burning!
Proclaim the secrets of the old wine-seller;
Be thou a surge of wine, and the crystal cup thy robe!
Shatter the mirror of fear,
Break the bottles in the bazaar!
Like the reed-flute, bring a message from the reeds;
Give to Majnún a message from Lailá!
Create a new style for thy song,
Enrich the feast with thy piercing strains!
Up, and re-inspire every living soul!
Say ‘Arise!’ and by that word quicken the living!
Up, and set thy feet on another path;
Put aside the passionate melancholy of old!
Become familiar with the delight of singing;
O bell of the caravan, awake!”
At these words my bosom was enkindled
And swelled with emotion like the flute;
I rose like music from the string
To prepare a Paradise for the ear.
I unveiled the mystery of the Self
And disclosed its wondrous secret.
My being was as an unfinished statue,
Uncomely, worthless, good for nothing.
Love chiselled me: I became a man
And gained knowledge of the nature of the universe.
I have seen the movement of the sinews of the sky,
And the blood coursing in the veins of the moon.
Many a night I wept for Man’s sake
That I might tear the veil from Life’s mysteries,
And extract the secret of Life’s constitution
From the laboratory of phenomena.
I who give beauty to this night, like the moon,
Am as dust in devotion to the pure Faith [Islam]—
A Faith renowned in hill and dale,
Which kindles in men’s hearts a flame of undying song:
It sowed an atom and reaped a sun,
It harvested a hundred poets like Rumi and Attar.
I am a sigh: I will mount to the heavens;
I am a breath, yet am I sprung of fire.
Driven onward by high thoughts, my pen
Cast abroad the secret of this veil,
That the drop may become co-equal with the sea
And the grain of sand grow into a Sahara.
Poetising is not the aim of this masnavi,
Beauty-worshipping and love-making is not its aim.
I am of India: Persian is not my native tongue;
I am like the crescent moon: my cup is not full.
Do not seek from me charm of style in exposition,
Do not seek from me Khansar and Isfahan.
Although the language of Hind is sweet as sugar,
Yet sweeter is the fashion of Persian speech.
My mind was enchanted by its loveliness,
My pen became as a twig of the Burning Bush.
Because of the loftiness of my thoughts,
Persian alone is suitable to them.
O Reader, do not find fault with the wine-cup,
But consider attentively the taste of the wine.

Muhammad Iqbal.

WORSHIP

You flood my music with your autumn silence
And burn me in the flame-burst of your spring.
Lo! through my beggar-being’s tattered garments
Resplendent shines your crystal heart, my King!

Like a rich song you chant your red-fire sunrise,
Deep in my dreams, and forge your white-flame moon ...
You hide the crimson secret of your sunset,
And the pure golden message of your moon.

You fashion cool-grey clouds within my body,
And weave your rain into a diamond mesh.
The Universal Beauty dances, dances
A glimmering peacock in my flowering flesh!

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

BEYOND THE VERGE OF TIME

Our dreams and longings cover deeper dreams
And longings in the silence far away.
All things on earth, sweet winds and shining clouds,
Waters and stars and the lone moods of men,
Are cool green echoes of the voice that sings
Beyond the verge of Time. Between two cries of aught,
Of aught on earth, wakes the eternal fire
Wherein the destiny of heaven is wrought,
For what is heaven but the earth grown full,
And God but man unshadowed and afar?

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

STEPS

Each moment when we feel alone
In this great world of rush and riot
Is as a jewelled stepping-stone
Which leads into the House of Quiet.

Within it dwell the ancient seers
Beyond unreal griefs and cares,
Beyond unreal smiles and tears,
Beyond the need of chant and prayers.

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

EGO

A Beauty that ever eludes these fleshly eyes
And fingers and lips ...
Ere I can catch one gleam of the starry skies
The mystery slips,

Leaving an empty, desolate, mocking moan
In the little heart that greedily sought to hold
Vast beauty within its shadowy grasp and own
Elusive, starry gold!

Who are you, feeble, shadow-robed elf,
Striving again and again in vain to capture
Wealth of the deep, the shining, ineffable rapture
Which is the Self beyond self?

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

FIRE

Kindle your glimmering lamp in the infinite space, O Love!
Let the dark shadows dance in the burning depths of mine eyes.
I am athirst for one glimpse of your beautiful face, O Love!
Veiled in the mystical silence of stars and the purple of skies.

Thrill me with radiant rapture, O Love! of your ravishing flute,
Folding my silence in song, and my sorrow in silver eclipse,
Shaping my heart into flower, and the flower of my heart into fruit
Meet for your orchards of light, and touch of your luminous lips.

Cast in the shadowy deeps of my being, your love, like a spark,
Fan it to magical flame, till my dead heart burst into fire,
Swing like a censer, my dream of devotion, O Love! through the dark,
Turn into tumults of incense my richly-pulsating desire!

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

THE ARTIST

The selfsame radiant ecstasy
Which wrought the tempest’s giant wrath
Has painted gorgeous dream-designs
So delicately on the moth.
The selfsame luminous agony
Which shaped the lightning’s fiery claw
Has carved in utmost tenderness
A summer flower without a flaw.

The selfsame motherhood which made
The awful mystery of death
Has built the body of a child
And lit its limbs with golden breath.
The selfsame miracle which moves
In silent mystery apart
Has struck the secret melody
Which dances shyly in my heart.

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

IMAGERY

He has fashioned the stars and the moons to the music
Of innermost-flowering joy and desire,
He has tried his own love for himself through the ages
By flooding his limbs with unquenchable fire
Of creation that dances and bubbles and flutters
In peacocks, in seas, and the hearts of the birds.
Behind the rich silence of red-running sunsets
And cool-coloured sundawns he utters his words.

He is finding for ever his infinite fullness
In blossoming buds and the withering flowers.
He shapes through the heart of the world his Ideal
So white in the midst of the many-hued hours.
He weaves a fine trammel of marvellous colours
Around and about him in utter delight,
Till straight through the darkness his laughter comes lambent,
Birdlike from a cage in a freedom of flight.

Harindranath Chattopadhyaya.

I
TRANSIENCE

Forgive this wrong:
That of your beauty I have made
Only a passing song,
Only a white-flower song that will fade
Ere I have time to lay it beneath
The shapèd beauty of your feet.

Jehangir Jivaji Vakil.

II
O LONG BLACK HAIR

O long black hair of love,
In your dark shades a dove,
My heart, circles in rings,
Beating white wings.

Jehangir Jivaji Vakil.

REVELATION

O, I have dreamt on many rain-dim eves
Of Beauty folded in the flowers and leaves,
Spraying the grass with laughter as with light
Of shaken pearls that lit her hair’s dark night;
But never dreamed her eyes so deep might be
As those with which last eve you gazed at me.

Jehangir Jivaji Vakil.

SPRING THAT IN MY COURTYARD

Spring that in my courtyard used to make
Such riot once, and buzzing laughter lift,
With heaped drift—
Pomegranate-flowers,
Kanchan, parul, rain of palas-showers;
Spring whose new twigs stirred the woods awake,
With rosy kisses maddening all the sky,[1]
Seeks me out to-day with soundless feet,
Where I sit alone. Her steadfast gaze
Goes out to where the fields and heavens meet;
Beside my silent cottage, silently
She looks and sees the greenness swoon and die
Into the azure haze.

Rabindranath Tagore.

THIS DAY WILL PASS

I know this day will pass,
This day will pass—[2]
That one day, some day,
The dim sun with tender smiling
Will look in my face,
Looking his last farewell.
Beside the way the flute will sound,
The kine will graze on the river-bank,
The children will play in the courtyards,
The birds will sing on.
Yet this day will pass,
This day will pass.
This is my prayer,
My prayer to Thee:
That ere I go I may learn
Why the green Earth,
Lifting her eyes to the sky,
Called me to her;
Why the silence of the Night
Told me of the stars,
Why the Day’s glory
Raised waves in my soul.
This is my prayer to Thee.
When Earth’s revolutions
For me are ended,
In the finishing of my song
Let me pause a moment,
That I may fill my basket
With the flowers and fruits of the Six Seasons;[3]
That in the light of this life
I may see Thee in going,
That I may garland Thee in going
With the garland from my own throat—
When Earth’s revolutions for me are ended.

Rabindranath Tagore.

URVASI[4]

Thou art not Mother, art not Daughter, art not Bride!
Thou beautiful, comely One,
O Dweller in Paradise, Urvasi!
When Evening descends on the pastures, drawing about her tired body her golden cloth,
Thou lightest the evening lamp within no home.
With hesitant, wavering steps, with throbbing breast and downcast look,
Thou dost not go, smiling, fearful, to any belovèd’s bed,
In the hushed midnight.
Like the rising Dawn, thou art unveiled,
Unshrinking One!
Like some stemless flower, blooming in thyself,
When didst thou blossom, Urvasi?
That primal Spring, thou didst arise from the churning of Ocean,[5]
In thy right hand nectar, venom in thy left.
The swelling, mighty Sea, like a serpent tamed with spells,
Drooping his thousand, towering hoods,
Fell at thy feet!
White as the kunda[6] blossom, a naked beauty, adored by the King of Gods,
Thou flawless One!

Wast thou never bud, never maiden of tender years,
O eternally youthful Urvasi?
Sitting alone, under whose dark roof
Didst thou know childhood’s play, toying with gems and pearls?
At whose side, in some chamber lit with the flashing of gems,
Lulled by the chant of the sea-waves, didst thou sleep, in coral bed,
A smile on thy pure face?

That moment when thou awakedst into the universe, thou wast framed of youth,
In full-blown beauty!

From age to age thou hast been the world’s beloved,
O unsurpassed in loveliness, Urvasi!
Breaking their meditation, sages lay at thy feet the fruits of their penance;
Smitten with thy glance, the three worlds[7] grow restless with youth;
The blinded winds blow thine intoxicating fragrance around;
Like the black bee, honey-drunken, the infatuated poet wonders, with greedy heart,
Lifting chants of wild jubilation!
While thou ... thou goest with jingling anklets and waving skirts,
Restless as lightning!

In the assembly of Gods, when thou dancest in ecstasy of joy,
O swaying Wave, Urvasi!
The companies of billows in mid-ocean swell and dance, beat on beat;
In the crests of the corn the skirts of Earth tremble;
From thy necklace stars fall off, in the sky;
Suddenly in the breast of man the heart forgets itself,
The blood dances!
Suddenly in the horizon thy zone bursts,
Ah, wild in abandon!

On the Sunrise Mount of Heaven thou art the embodied Dawn,
O world-enchanting Urvasi!
The slimness of thy form is washed with the tears of the Universe;
The ruddy hue of thy feet is painted with the heart’s blood of the three worlds;
Thy tresses disrobed from their braid, thou hast placed thy light feet,
Thy lotus-feet, on the lotus of the blossomed
Desires of the universe!
Endless are thy masques in the mind’s heaven,
O Comrade of dreams!

Ah, hear what crying and weeping everywhere rises for thee,
O cruel, deaf Urvasi!
Ah, will that Ancient Prime ever revisit this earth?
From the shoreless, unfathomed deep wilt thou ever rise again, with wet locks?
First in the First Dawn that Form will show!
In the startled gaze of the universe all thy limbs will weep,
The waters flowing from them!
Suddenly the vast Sea, in songs never heard before,
Will thunder with its waves!

She will not return, she will not return! That Moon of Glory has set,
She has made her home on the Mount of Setting,[8] has Urvasi!
Therefore to-day, on earth, with the joyous breath of Spring
Mingles the long-drawn sigh of some eternal separation!
On the night of full moon, when the world brims with laughter,
Memory, from somewhere far away, pipes a flute that brings unrest,
The tears gush out!
Yet in that weeping of the spirit Hope wakes and lives;
Ah, Unfettered One!

Rabindranath Tagore.

OPEN THOU THY DOOR OF MERCY

All my guilt of old, sin upon sin, put far, far away. Give, O Lord, give in my heart the melody of a new song.

To stir to life my withered, unfeeling heart, near to death and poor, play thy melody on the bīnā, taking ever a new tune.

As in Nature thy sweetness overflows, so let thy compassion wake in my heart.

In the midst of all things may thy loving face float before my eyes. May no rebel thought against thy wish ever wake in my heart.

Day by day, before I set foot in life’s forest, may I crave thy blessing and so advance, my Lord.

Setting thy commands upon my head, may I with unfaltering care accomplish my every task in the remembrance of thy feet.

Giving to thee the fruit of my task fulfilled, at the end of day may my wearied spirit and body find rest.

Hurrying have I come from far away, knowing thee compassionate. A hundred hindrances there were to my coming. How many thorns fill the path to my goal. So, to-day, behold! my heart is wounded, my life is dark. Hurrying have I come from far away, knowing thee compassionate.

Open thou thy door of mercy. My raft of life drifts on the boundless ocean. Fearlessness art thou, and ever powerful. Nought have I, I am weak and poor. My heart is thirsting for thy lotus feet. The day is now far spent. Open thou thy door of mercy. My raft of life drifts on the boundless ocean.[9]

Hemantabālā Dutt.

Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

THE DANCER

Lo! the heavy rain has come! With loosened tresses densely dark, lo! the sky is covered. Lightnings rend the thick darkness over the mountains. All around, to my heart’s content, I see that beauty has burst forth.

See, frolicsome, she pours forth her loveliness in a thousand streams! Her raiment, hastily flung around her in disarray, mad passion in her eyes, with the voice of the pāpiyā, full of sweetness and pity, she sings.

Slowly move her feet. Slipping, slipping, falls her loosely hanging scarf. Her heart throbs with tumultuous feeling. As if a flood of beauty overflows, her green jacket of emerald grass displays the hue of her radiant beauty all around.

The anklets on her feet, keeping time, ring out in swift succession, as if they were sweet cymbals. Round her lovely throat hangs her chain of emerald parrots. The rain has ceased and she garbs herself in silken robes broidered with diamond raindrops.

She gladdens the eye. On the treetops birds play on golden tambourines. Is the dancer dancing in Indra’s hall, casting restless glances here and there? Urbasī[10] puts off the chain of jewels from her breast.

How gay her laughter! How fair a dance her tinkling footsteps weave! Her bracelets and bangles circle glittering. She is girdled with melody of murmuring swans. For her earth and sky swoon away, overflowing with love.

Her hands touched the bīnā[11] and by her spell enthralled my infatuated heart. Tears stream from my eyes; infatuation floods my heart. The witch to-day has melted my timid heart. Lo! the heavy rain has come.

Nirupamā Debī.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

Thee among all men do I honour;
Thee among all men do I know.
Lo! in the beauty of all thee do I see.

In the mouth of all I have heard, I have heard
The sweet voice of thy lips.

Thee this time I have sought and found;
Thee amongst all do I worship;
Lo! I for all have given my life.

To the work of all amongst all
I have devoted my heart.[12]

Nirupamā Debī.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

REMEMBRANCE

To-day I shall not indulge in lovers’ quarrels.
I shall not open the ledger and calculate debit and credit.
Only, once again, I shall fill my heart with remembrance of thee.[13]

Priyambadā Debī.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

THE VISIBLE

Dearest, I know that thy body is but transitory; that the kindled life, thy shining eyes, shall be quenched by the touch of death, I know; that this thy body, the meeting-place of all beauty, in seeing which I count my life well-lived, shall become but a heap of bones, I know. Yet I love thy body. Day by day afresh through it have I satisfied a woman’s love and desire by serving thy feet and worshipping thee. On days of good omen I have decked thee with a flower-garland; on days of woe I have wiped away with my sārī end thy tears of grief. O my lord, I know that thy soul is with the Everlasting One, yet waking suddenly some nights I have wept in loneliness, thinking how thou didst drive away my fear, clasping me to thy breast. And so I count thy body as the chief goal of my love, as very heaven.[14]

Priyambadā Debī.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

IN THE LIGHT

We are indeed children of Light. What an endless mart goes on in the Light! In the Light is our sleeping and waking, the play of our life and death.

Beneath one great canopy, in the ray of one great sun, slowly, very slowly, burn the unnumbered lamps of life.

In the midst of this unending Light I lose myself; amidst this intolerable radiance I wander like one blind.

We are indeed children of Light. Why then do we fear when we see the Light? Come, let us look all around and see, here no man hath cause for any fear.

In this boundless ocean of Light, if a tiny lamp goes out, let it go; who can say that it will not burn again?

Mrs. Kāminī Roy.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

CALL AND BRING HER

She went on the wrong way; she has come back again; afar off she stands, her head bowed down with shame and fear; she does not step forward, she cannot raise her eyes—go near, take her hand, call her and bring her.

To-day turn not your face away in silent reproach; to-day let eyes and words be filled with the nectar of love. What good will come from pouring scorn on the past? Think of her dark future, take her by the hand and bring her.

Lest for lack of love this shamed soul fling away repentance, bring her, call and bring her. She has come to give herself up; bind her fast with loving arms; if she goes to-day, what if she never comes again?

By one day’s neglect, one day’s contempt and anger, you will lose a life for ever. Do you not purpose to give life? Neglect is a poisoned arrow; with sorrowing pardon bring her, call and bring her.

Mrs. Kāminī Roy.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

BASANTA PANCHAMI[15]

To-day, after a year, on the sacred fifth day, Nature has flung away her worn raiment, and with new jewels, see, with fresh buds and new shoots she has begemmed herself and smiles. The birds wing their way, singing with joy; ah, how lovely! The black bee hums as if with sound of “Ulu! ulu!” he wished good fortune to Nature. The south breeze seems to say as it flits from house to house, “To-day Bīnāpāni[16] comes here to Bengal.” Arrayed in guise that would enrapture even sages, maid Nature has come to worship thy feet, O propitious one! See, O India, at this time all pay no heed to fear of plague, famine, earthquake; all put away pain and grief and gloom; to-day all are drunk with pleasure. For a year Nature was waiting in hope for this day to come. Many folk in many a fashion now summon thee, O white-armed one; I also have a mind to worship. Thy two feet are red lotuses; but, say, with what gift shall we worship thee, O mother Bīnāpāni? Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred are we women of Bengal, all of us. Yet if thou have mercy, this utterly dependent one will worship thee with the gift of a single tear of devotion shed on thy lotus feet. Graciously accept that, and in mercy, O white-armed one, grant this blessing on my head on this propitious, sacred day, that this life may be spent in thy worship, Mother.

Pankajinī Basu.
Tr. Miss Whitehouse.

A WOMAN’S BEAUTY

Round the black eyes are eyebrows looking like a bow,
They are not frightened at all, and they shoot their arrows with certainty.
Seeing the precious ear-rings with pearls and beautiful settings,
Even the moon with all the stars is filled with shame.
I cannot describe the beauty of the lips, cheeks, teeth, and nose,
Even Śesh Nāg,[17] seeing the beautiful hair, sighs deeply.

Śrī Sarasvatī Devī.
Tr. Mrs. Keay.

AN EVENING ON THE LAGOON

Withdrawn in silence from the raging sea,
Behind the dark and waving grove of palm
In glorious solitude at even calm
We glide at water’s edge, towards the lea
Away from busy haunts; Eternity
And Love, the burden of our rapturous psalm,
As ’neath the star-lit heaven we breathe the balm
Of Nature’s stillness, lulling you and me
To dream in soft ethereal realms of bliss
Where flits no darkening shadow, dwells no care
And all is sweetness and ecstatic light,
The plighted faith renewed with every kiss
Of fervent gratitude for all our share
Of blessed weal in life, by day and night.

P. Seshadri.

AT THE TEMPLE

Three little girls were on the temple-stair
Waiting for worship at the inner shrine;
Their tiny hands betrayed a hidden sign
Of weariness, devoid of strength to bear
Their wealth of luscious fruit and offerings rare—
But still they stood. “What shall the Gods assign
To crown your lives?” I asked, “what blessings fine
Will cheer with happiness your faces fair?”
“A mass of glittering jewels,” said one child,
“Bracelet and necklace, shining gold waistband
And pearl ear-drop.” “Fine robes of richest lace
And gayest foam-spun silk,” another willed.
The third, with head bent down and trembling hand,
Whispered, “A lovely partner on life’s ways.”

P. Seshadri.

RAKSHA BANDHAN

A piece of silken tassel tipped with gold,
Tied round the hand by loving sister’s hands,
A sacred day in Sravan, when the lands
Are bathed in welcome rain, is said to hold
A potent charm for good. From days of old
This pretty faith has come and happy bands
Of brothers still pay heed to its commands
One day each year. Who will be rashly bold
And flout this festival as void of worth—
An ancient mummery—to which man shows
His slavish piety? Let him, who knows
Of beings more devoted than the fair,
Of wishes purer than a sister’s care,
And stronger powers than woman’s love on earth.

P. Seshadri.

LONGINGS

Were I a mighty Master swaying Art
In all her lovely forms surpassing fair
And robed in magic mystery, aware
Of cunning artist-craft, a mind and heart
Aglow with Beauty’s sacred spark, a part
Of God’s creative light! If I could share
The gift of breathing life-infusing air
In canvas, draw thy rapturous sweetness, start
The portrait beaming, bright in loveliness;
The sculptor’s skill—to shape thy limbs divine
In living marble, show thy beauty’s prime!
Shall I encrowned with laurel, sing for Time,
Eternity, and Universe, enshrine
Thy name for ages, scorning storm and stress?

P. Seshadri.

THOUGHTS

When midnight hours know not the peace of sleep
But drudge in trembling hope for envied fame,
In ghostly solitude before a flame
Of glimmering light, whose sombre rays out-peep
To view the city wrapped in silence deep,
Midst weird and darkly waving groves of palm;
When wizard clocks ring out and rend the calm
With strides of Time—their thrilling voices creep
Along the soul; my mind with labour worn,
Or grappling with a knot, delights to stand
In stillness, yearning forth to clasp with love
Thy beauteous form—and then, Spring opes above!
With blossom’d flow’r and chirping bird, the land
Smiles ’neath the sunlit hues the heavens adorn!

P. Seshadri.

THE LOVERS

From the rose-gardens of Time, fragrant and fresh, in ecstasies of light—Day has come! How many an age of silent love hath breathed and breathed upon his cheeks that tender flush of rose?

The blue in his eyes—from what lakes of enchantment hath he drunk? The radiant colours of his thought—from what infinite wonder hath he made? The glory of his love for whom, for whom hath he brought? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds? The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?

A Lotus-bud has opened; ere she was born the pain of a vast music did fill and fill her soul with a vain constant hope; in the ecstasy of that pain she bloomed into flower.

The Lotus dreams upon the lyric melodies of Day.

In the sunset hush of evening she folds her petals upon the memories of Day, enwoven with her fragrant devotions.

In the secrecy of Night she sings her praise, making the deeps of the dark melodious.

The glory of his love for whom, for whom doth he bring? For whom, for whom the music of his clouds, his winds, his birds?

The secrets of his soul for whom, for whom?

Fredoon Kabraji.

A BLUE DREAM

Where her two lips
Meet or part,
Leaps all my heart
Like the swift ship’s
Lurch on the lucent wave—
Past peril and the grave!

Where her two eyes open or close
Upon the rose-kissed snows
Of her face,
From my soul doth rise
Of its grace
A white star in their skies!

But if she smile ...
Or weave of her mouth a word,
Swiftly a light steals
Half my mind, while
Her word falls all unheard!
And a blue mist reels
Half curtaining my mind,
As a blue dream reels
In the heart of the blind:
Circling a remembrance
Of meadows and streams,
Of blossoms that open and lights that dance,
And passions that struggle to live in dreams!

Fredoon Kabraji.

TULIP

Tulip, tell me, what do you hold in your cup?

I hold in my cup the magic that swells the thirst of your soul, O Mother, when you look on the form of your child; the opiate that fills your dream, Mother, with the awe of the Unknown!

But, Tulip, tell me, why do you guard your magic beyond the wing of melody?

Because, ere Thought was, a kiss of Love did capture Death in the Seed of Life. That is why no melody of Life can hold all the magic in my cup, Mother; that is why Love cannot hold your child in Life alone!

Fredoon Kabraji.

RETURN TO KHAIRPUR

Thy greens grow pearls, thy sunsets roses fair;
My wandering heart returned to stay with thee,
In shades of eve, to breathe thy cooler air,
That brings refreshment, promised long to me.
I love thy water-wheels, that sing to sleep
The playful twilight, Autumn’s moody child,
The flames that from thy fields and pinfolds leap
Like lights that lead the hearts by Pan beguiled.
I love thy country maids with water-jars
Whose graceful coveys rural charms enhance.
I love thy palms that gaze at distant stars,
And upward draw the earth-encumbered glance.
I love thy lake with silver trailing flowers,
Whose wavelets fondly hold the starry skies;
The moon, entranced by calm of midnight hours,
In violet bed on lily-petals lies.
No more the eyes of homesick longings pine
To watch the sphere remote where stars abound,
But, like thy lake that holds its love divine,
My heart within hath longed-for heaven found.

Elsa Kazi.

INDIA—ENTERTAINING TWILIGHT

To India’s comely cottage Twilight hied:
“Salam, my lass!” resplendent Twilight cried:
“A sumptuous fare prepare! ... since noon I tried
To come this way ... but ah! the glowing day did stay
With thee!... Fresh milk and fried chapatis bring;
Do not forget thy hubble-bubble, dear,
For lots of dreamy cheer!
From out thy hair the withered lily fling;
Don fine array, with pearls thy tresses lay, and play
Thy vīnā, dance and sing!
One stolen hour is mine; that little while
With haunting notes of suri-raag beguile ...
And let me see thy flaming eyes, as thunder skies
So deep and dark, with mystic lightnings bright;
With ‘Duhals’ wake what slumbering lies, the past let rise
All yesterdays to pageant gay, invite ...
Be swift, my sweet!
The meat and chutney let us eat ...
The hour, my sweet,
Is fleet; from night I must retreat!
Already muezzin’s mellow call resounds in mango grove;
And temple bells, that wake the gods, the hearts to worship move;
Come hither, dear!... The moments flee!
Salam, my love,
Salam!”

And India, sun-burnt India, sweetly blushed;
“Salam! I’ll hasten!” answered she; and brushed
From off her braid the faded lily—crushed
By day’s embrace; she sped, with joy, her face a-blaze,
To milk the goats, to fry the cakes in ghee;
Cabob, pullau, the dates and honey brought
And hubble-bubble sought
With smiles of Sindian hospitality.
With peri-grace she soared about the place, to trace
Each thing that added glee
To Twilight’s hour ... a rich repast she spread
Before her guest, who sliced the mangoes red
’Neath palms, beside the well and stream ... his eyes a-gleam
With dusk, he watched where night in forests hid
And vexed with prying silver beam his crimson dream,
While India, humming low, her braids undid.
With rustling sound
Unbound, her tresses sought the ground;
With silvery sound
She wound her pearls in orient found ...
Her silk-apparel jasmin-decked, kissed rugs of golden cloth;
With henna’d hands she swirled her veil, as frail as wings of moth;
Her vīnā struck, with bended knee:
“Salam,” she quoth:
“Salam!”

She shot as lightning up ... then paused and smiled;
Then round she spun in trance, as dervish wild;
In rainbow hue she flew, with flowers piled;
A flame a-whirl, with passion red, each curl a-twirl,
As Indra’s temple-dancer, maddening hearts
Her lips with kisses scarlet!—Eyes aglow
Now moved she sly and slow
As Punjab tigress ere for prey she starts ...
Then did unfurl a smock as white as pearl ... a girl
Of pious Southern parts
She turned, gazellean-soft and meek her glance,
The rosary and censer graced her dance;
A fragrant bud of womanhood, divinely good;
But soon her measure ceased ... with rhythmic thrill
In Delhi’s wealth arrayed she stood, in soaring mood
Then danced again, to show her perfect skill!
With flourish bold
And gold a-flash, now anklets told,
Her footsteps bold
Controlled a battle march of old!
She forward dashed as amazon of Rajput’s desert side,
Her eyes with valour all a-flame, so proudly did she stride:
“Wah! Wah!” so Twilight cheered ... and she:
“Salam,” replied:
“Salam!”

Her Jadoo-veil now changed the scene ... and lo!
In clouds she danced thro’ Kashmeer’s mountainsnow,
Thro’ jungle glooms and tombs of gold below;
By Ganges led, where orchards blossoms shed, she sped
’Mid Koels as Gopi, or as Rama’s queen ...
With shimmering ivory limbs, and rubied brow
As Moghul princess now
She sat ’mid slaves on throne of Jasper sheen.
Now made her bed on elephant’s broad head, and fled
As Jin thro’ plantains green.
Then rose as butterfly from out her shawl
All poised o’er lucid lakes of Taj Mahal.—
The hour had slipped, and night at last approached so fast;
And Twilight donned his turban, chilled with fright ...
The hookah-stick, he dropped aghast, and India cast
Her jewelled slipper at her guardian Night
Who gently sailed,
And trailed the stars ... but Twilight quailed
And westward sailed!
All veiled in mists he drooped and paled!
Her lacquered cradle India spread for moonlit night to rest,
Namaskar made with folded hands! ... half serious, half a-jest,
She fibbered: “Twilight hit at thee ...
Salam, my best
Salam!”

Elsa Kazi.

ROSHANARA

The Queen Roshanara is sad and weeps in the absence of her lord in battle. Her maidens strive to comfort her:

With this, to the couch
Whereon lay the Queen, so shaken
With voices she heard
And dreams she dreamt
And visions she saw.
To her they brought rose-petals
In their hands, and musks in baskets,
Perfuming her. But she was
Terror-stricken still.
Then with a wild clash of
Tambourines they fell to
An air of joyous happiness,
Sweetly soared the voice,
Like that of a nightingale,
Of the chief maiden who
Sang of the wind:

“North wind and south wind,
West wind and east wind,
Thou shalt not moan,
But blow, blow
Gently on my Lady’s cheeks, blow.
And thou, O great sea,
Thou shalt not wail,
But sweetly lull my Lady to sleep.

“Red leaf and green leaf, and all ye withered leaves,
Ye shall not turn the lawns into a wilderness,
For my Lady is sad,
And to see ye thus would make her sadder still.
Great trees and small trees,
Ye shall not shake and shiver
When my Lady walks,
But ye shall serve her as a good shade.

“Great birds and small birds and all ye humming birds,
Ye shall not wail mourning elegies,
But shall twitter and your little throats shall quiver
In an ecstasy of delight.
Ye shall sing of sweet joy,
Ye shall make my Lady happy.

“And ye Fairies and Cherubs,
Ye Queens of the Dreams,
And Kings of the Shadows,
Of the hidden people and the Unknown,
Ye shall not approach my Lady,
For her heart sinks with fright,
And she trembles like a leaf
That is thrown from the branches
With the wind’s force.
All ye unknown, be banished
From my Lady, to your land
Of Mystery and Heart’s Desire,
To your land of Eternal Youth.”

Adi K. Sett.

IN PRAISE OF HENNA

A kokila called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna tree.
Send your pitchers afloat on the tide,
Gather the leaves ere the dawn be old,
Grind them in mortars of amber and gold,
The fresh green leaves of the henna tree.

A kokila called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away
To gather the leaves of the henna tree.
The tilka’s red for the brow of a bride,
And betel-nut’s red for lips that are sweet;
But, for lily-like fingers and feet,
The red, the red of the henna tree.

Sarojini Naidu.

IMPERIAL DELHI

Imperial City! dowered with sovereign grace,
To thy renascent glory still there clings
The splendid tragedy of ancient things,
The regal woes of many a vanquished race;
And memory’s tears are cold upon thy face
E’en while thy heart’s returning gladness rings
Loud on the sleep of thy forgotten Kings,
Who in thine arms sought Life’s last resting-place.

Thy changing Kings and Kingdoms pass away,
The gorgeous legends of a bygone day,
But thou dost still immutably remain
Unbroken symbol of proud histories,
Unageing priestess of old mysteries
Before whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.

Sarojini Naidu.

DIRGE
(In sorrow of her bereavement)

What longer need hath she of loveliness,
Whom Death has parted from her lord’s caress?
Of glimmering robes like rainbow-tangled mist,
Of gleaming glass or jewels on her wrist,
Blossoms or fillet-pearls to deck her head,
Or jasmine garlands to adorn her bed?

Put by the mirror of her bridal days....
Why needs she now its counsel or its praise,
Or happy symbol of the henna leaf
For hands that know the comradeship of grief,
Red spices for her lips that drink of sighs,
Or black collyrium for her weeping eyes?

Shatter her shining bracelets, break the string
Threading the mystic marriage-beads that cling
Loth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,
Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,
Divest her of her azure veils and cloud
Her living beauty in a living shroud.

Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we give
For joy so frail, for hope so fugitive?
The yearning pain of unfulfilled delight,
The moonless vigils of her lonely night,
For the abysmal anguish of her tears,
And flowering springs that mock her empty years?

Sarojini Naidu.

SPRING

Young leaves grow green on the banyan twigs,
And red on the peepul tree,
The honey-birds pipe to the budding figs,
And honey-blooms call to the bee.

Poppies squander their fragile gold
In the silvery aloe-brake;
Coral and ivory lilies unfold
Their delicate lives on the lake.

Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge,
And all the vivid air thrills
With butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge,
And the luminous blue of the hills.

Sarojini Naidu.

CRADLE-SONG

From groves of spice,
O’er fields of rice,
Athwart the lotus-stream,
I bring for you,
Aglint with dew,
A little lovely dream.

Sweet, shut your eyes,
The wild fire-flies
Dance through the fairy neem;
From the poppy-hole
For you I stole
A little lovely dream.

Dear eyes, good-night,
In golden light
The stars around you gleam;
On you I press
With soft caress
A little lovely dream.

Sarojini Naidu.

JUNE SUNSET

Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,
By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streams
That glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm.
Here shall my soul find its true repose
Under a sunset sky of dreams
Diaphanous, amber, and rose.
The air is aglow with the glint and whirl
Of swift wild wings in their homeward flight,
Sapphire, emerald, topaz, and pearl,
Afloat in the evening light.

A brown quail cries from the tamarisk bushes,
A bulbul calls from the cassia-plume,
And thro’ the wet earth the gentian pushes
Her spikes of silvery bloom.
Where’er the foot of the bright shower passes
Fragrant and fresh delights unfold;
The wild fawns feed on the scented grasses,
Wild bees on the cactus-gold.

An ox-cart stumbles upon the rocks,
And a wistful music pursues the breeze,
From a shepherd’s pipe as he gathers his flocks
Under the pipal-trees.
And a young Banjara driving her cattle
Lifts up her voice as she glitters by
In an ancient ballad of love and battle
Set to the beat of a mystic tune,
And the faint stars gleam in the eastern sky
To herald a rising moon.

Sarojini Naidu.

BUNKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI

How hast thou lost, O month of honey and flowers,
The voice that was thy soul! Creative showers,
The cuckoo’s daylong cry and moan of bees,
Zephyrs and streams and tender-blossoming trees,
And murmuring laughter and heart-easing tears
And tender thoughts and great, and the compeers
Of lily and jasmine and melodious birds,
All these thy children into lovely words
He changed at will and made soul-moving books
From hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks.
O master of delicious words! the bloom
Of champak and the breath of king-perfume
Have made each musical sentence with the noise
Of women’s ornaments and sweet household joys
And laughter tender as the voice of leaves
Playing with vernal winds. The eye receives,
That reads these lines, an image of delight,
A world with shapes of spring and summer, noon and night;
All nature in a page, no pleasing show
But men more real than the friends we know.
O plains, O hills, O rivers of sweet Bengal,
O land of love and flowers, the spring-bird’s call
And southern wind are sweet among your trees:
Your poet’s words are sweeter far than these.
Your heart was this man’s heart. Subtly he knew
The beauty and divinity in you.
His nature kingly was and as a god
In large serenity and light he trod
His daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowers
Wreathing a hero’s sword, ruled all his hours.
Thus moving in these iron times and drear,
Barren of bliss and robbed of golden cheer,
He sowed the desert with ruddy-hearted rose,
The sweetest voice that ever spoke in prose.

Sri Aurobindo Ghose.