With this, to the couchWhereon lay the Queen, so shakenWith voices she heardAnd dreams she dreamtAnd visions she saw.To her they brought rose-petalsIn their hands, and musks in baskets,Perfuming her. But she wasTerror-stricken still.Then with a wild clash ofTambourines they fell toAn air of joyous happiness,Sweetly soared the voice,Like that of a nightingale,Of the chief maiden whoSang of the wind:“North wind and south wind,West wind and east wind,Thou shalt not moan,But blow, blowGently 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 shiverWhen 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 quiverIn 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 leafThat is thrown from the branchesWith the wind’s force.All ye unknown, be banishedFrom my Lady, to your landOf Mystery and Heart’s Desire,To your land of Eternal Youth.”Adi K. Sett.
With this, to the couchWhereon lay the Queen, so shakenWith voices she heardAnd dreams she dreamtAnd visions she saw.To her they brought rose-petalsIn their hands, and musks in baskets,Perfuming her. But she wasTerror-stricken still.Then with a wild clash ofTambourines they fell toAn air of joyous happiness,Sweetly soared the voice,Like that of a nightingale,Of the chief maiden whoSang of the wind:“North wind and south wind,West wind and east wind,Thou shalt not moan,But blow, blowGently 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 shiverWhen 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 quiverIn 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 leafThat is thrown from the branchesWith the wind’s force.All ye unknown, be banishedFrom my Lady, to your landOf Mystery and Heart’s Desire,To your land of Eternal Youth.”Adi K. Sett.
With this, to the couchWhereon lay the Queen, so shakenWith voices she heardAnd dreams she dreamtAnd visions she saw.To her they brought rose-petalsIn their hands, and musks in baskets,Perfuming her. But she wasTerror-stricken still.Then with a wild clash ofTambourines they fell toAn air of joyous happiness,Sweetly soared the voice,Like that of a nightingale,Of the chief maiden whoSang of the wind:
“North wind and south wind,West wind and east wind,Thou shalt not moan,But blow, blowGently 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 shiverWhen 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 quiverIn 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 leafThat is thrown from the branchesWith the wind’s force.All ye unknown, be banishedFrom my Lady, to your landOf Mystery and Heart’s Desire,To your land of Eternal Youth.”
Adi K. Sett.
A kokila called from a henna-spray:Lira! liree! Lira! liree!Hasten, maidens, hasten awayTo 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 awayTo gather the leaves of the henna tree.Thetilka’sred 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.
A kokila called from a henna-spray:Lira! liree! Lira! liree!Hasten, maidens, hasten awayTo 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 awayTo gather the leaves of the henna tree.Thetilka’sred 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.
A kokila called from a henna-spray:Lira! liree! Lira! liree!Hasten, maidens, hasten awayTo 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 awayTo gather the leaves of the henna tree.Thetilka’sred 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 City! dowered with sovereign grace,To thy renascent glory still there clingsThe splendid tragedy of ancient things,The regal woes of many a vanquished race;And memory’s tears are cold upon thy faceE’en while thy heart’s returning gladness ringsLoud 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 remainUnbroken symbol of proud histories,Unageing priestess of old mysteriesBefore whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.Sarojini Naidu.
Imperial City! dowered with sovereign grace,To thy renascent glory still there clingsThe splendid tragedy of ancient things,The regal woes of many a vanquished race;And memory’s tears are cold upon thy faceE’en while thy heart’s returning gladness ringsLoud 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 remainUnbroken symbol of proud histories,Unageing priestess of old mysteriesBefore whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.Sarojini Naidu.
Imperial City! dowered with sovereign grace,To thy renascent glory still there clingsThe splendid tragedy of ancient things,The regal woes of many a vanquished race;And memory’s tears are cold upon thy faceE’en while thy heart’s returning gladness ringsLoud 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 remainUnbroken symbol of proud histories,Unageing priestess of old mysteriesBefore whose shrine the spells of Death are vain.
Sarojini Naidu.
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 leafFor 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 stringThreading the mystic marriage-beads that clingLoth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,Divest her of her azure veils and cloudHer living beauty in a living shroud.Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we giveFor 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.
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 leafFor 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 stringThreading the mystic marriage-beads that clingLoth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,Divest her of her azure veils and cloudHer living beauty in a living shroud.Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we giveFor 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.
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 leafFor 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 stringThreading the mystic marriage-beads that clingLoth to desert a sobbing throat so sweet,Unbind the golden anklets on her feet,Divest her of her azure veils and cloudHer living beauty in a living shroud.
Nay, let her be! ... what comfort can we giveFor 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.
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 goldIn the silvery aloe-brake;Coral and ivory lilies unfoldTheir delicate lives on the lake.Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge,And all the vivid air thrillsWith butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge,And the luminous blue of the hills.Sarojini Naidu.
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 goldIn the silvery aloe-brake;Coral and ivory lilies unfoldTheir delicate lives on the lake.Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge,And all the vivid air thrillsWith butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge,And the luminous blue of the hills.Sarojini Naidu.
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 goldIn the silvery aloe-brake;Coral and ivory lilies unfoldTheir delicate lives on the lake.
Kingfishers ruffle the feathery sedge,And all the vivid air thrillsWith butterfly-wings in the wild-rose hedge,And the luminous blue of the hills.
Sarojini Naidu.
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-fliesDance through the fairyneem;From the poppy-holeFor you I stoleA little lovely dream.Dear eyes, good-night,In golden lightThe stars around you gleam;On you I pressWith soft caressA little lovely dream.Sarojini Naidu.
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-fliesDance through the fairyneem;From the poppy-holeFor you I stoleA little lovely dream.Dear eyes, good-night,In golden lightThe stars around you gleam;On you I pressWith soft caressA little lovely dream.Sarojini Naidu.
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-fliesDance through the fairyneem;From the poppy-holeFor you I stoleA little lovely dream.
Dear eyes, good-night,In golden lightThe stars around you gleam;On you I pressWith soft caressA little lovely dream.
Sarojini Naidu.
Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streamsThat glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm.Here shall my soul find its true reposeUnder a sunset sky of dreamsDiaphanous, amber, and rose.The air is aglow with the glint and whirlOf 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 pushesHer spikes of silvery bloom.Where’er the foot of the bright shower passesFragrant 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 flocksUnder the pipal-trees.And a young Banjara driving her cattleLifts up her voice as she glitters byIn an ancient ballad of love and battleSet to the beat of a mystic tune,And the faint stars gleam in the eastern skyTo herald a rising moon.Sarojini Naidu.
Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streamsThat glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm.Here shall my soul find its true reposeUnder a sunset sky of dreamsDiaphanous, amber, and rose.The air is aglow with the glint and whirlOf 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 pushesHer spikes of silvery bloom.Where’er the foot of the bright shower passesFragrant 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 flocksUnder the pipal-trees.And a young Banjara driving her cattleLifts up her voice as she glitters byIn an ancient ballad of love and battleSet to the beat of a mystic tune,And the faint stars gleam in the eastern skyTo herald a rising moon.Sarojini Naidu.
Here shall my heart find its haven of calm,By rush-fringed rivers and rain-fed streamsThat glimmer thro’ meadows of lily and palm.Here shall my soul find its true reposeUnder a sunset sky of dreamsDiaphanous, amber, and rose.The air is aglow with the glint and whirlOf 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 pushesHer spikes of silvery bloom.Where’er the foot of the bright shower passesFragrant 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 flocksUnder the pipal-trees.And a young Banjara driving her cattleLifts up her voice as she glitters byIn an ancient ballad of love and battleSet to the beat of a mystic tune,And the faint stars gleam in the eastern skyTo herald a rising moon.
Sarojini Naidu.
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 tearsAnd tender thoughts and great, and the compeersOf lily and jasmine and melodious birds,All these thy children into lovely wordsHe changed at will and made soul-moving booksFrom hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks.O master of delicious words! the bloomOfchampakand the breath of king-perfumeHave made each musical sentence with the noiseOf women’s ornaments and sweet household joysAnd laughter tender as the voice of leavesPlaying 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 showBut 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 callAnd 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 knewThe beauty and divinity in you.His nature kingly was and as a godIn large serenity and light he trodHis daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowersWreathing 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.
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 tearsAnd tender thoughts and great, and the compeersOf lily and jasmine and melodious birds,All these thy children into lovely wordsHe changed at will and made soul-moving booksFrom hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks.O master of delicious words! the bloomOfchampakand the breath of king-perfumeHave made each musical sentence with the noiseOf women’s ornaments and sweet household joysAnd laughter tender as the voice of leavesPlaying 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 showBut 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 callAnd 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 knewThe beauty and divinity in you.His nature kingly was and as a godIn large serenity and light he trodHis daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowersWreathing 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.
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 tearsAnd tender thoughts and great, and the compeersOf lily and jasmine and melodious birds,All these thy children into lovely wordsHe changed at will and made soul-moving booksFrom hearts of men and women’s honeyed looks.O master of delicious words! the bloomOfchampakand the breath of king-perfumeHave made each musical sentence with the noiseOf women’s ornaments and sweet household joysAnd laughter tender as the voice of leavesPlaying 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 showBut 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 callAnd 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 knewThe beauty and divinity in you.His nature kingly was and as a godIn large serenity and light he trodHis daily way, yet beauty, like soft flowersWreathing 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.
Now lilies blow upon the windy height,Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,Narcissus builds his house of self-delightAnd Love’s own fairest flower blooms again;Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall;One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.(Meleager.)
Now lilies blow upon the windy height,Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,Narcissus builds his house of self-delightAnd Love’s own fairest flower blooms again;Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall;One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.(Meleager.)
Now lilies blow upon the windy height,Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,Narcissus builds his house of self-delightAnd Love’s own fairest flower blooms again;Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall;One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.(Meleager.)
Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moanOf the blue waves that like a shaken robeTwo heard together once, one hears alone.Now gliding white and hushed towards our globeKeen January with cold eyes and clearAnd snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobeUshers the firstborn of the radiant year.Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould,May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;Haply his joyless fingers wan and coldCaress the ruined masses of thy hair,Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.Art thou so desolate in that bitter airThat even his breath feels warm upon thy face?Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,And I will meet thee in that lonely place,Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful daysAnd death admit me to the silent ways.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moanOf the blue waves that like a shaken robeTwo heard together once, one hears alone.Now gliding white and hushed towards our globeKeen January with cold eyes and clearAnd snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobeUshers the firstborn of the radiant year.Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould,May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;Haply his joyless fingers wan and coldCaress the ruined masses of thy hair,Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.Art thou so desolate in that bitter airThat even his breath feels warm upon thy face?Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,And I will meet thee in that lonely place,Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful daysAnd death admit me to the silent ways.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moanOf the blue waves that like a shaken robeTwo heard together once, one hears alone.
Now gliding white and hushed towards our globeKeen January with cold eyes and clearAnd snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobe
Ushers the firstborn of the radiant year.Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould,May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;
Haply his joyless fingers wan and coldCaress the ruined masses of thy hair,Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.
Art thou so desolate in that bitter airThat even his breath feels warm upon thy face?Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,
And I will meet thee in that lonely place,Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful daysAnd death admit me to the silent ways.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
With wind and the weather beating round meUp to the hill and the moorland I go.Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?Not in the petty circle of citiesCramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;Over me God is blue in the welkin,Against me the wind and the storm rebel.I sport with solitude here in my regions,Of misadventure have made me a friend.Who would live largely? who would live freely?Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend.I am the lord of tempest and mountain,I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.Stark must he be and a kinsman to dangerWho shares my kingdom and walks at my side.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
With wind and the weather beating round meUp to the hill and the moorland I go.Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?Not in the petty circle of citiesCramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;Over me God is blue in the welkin,Against me the wind and the storm rebel.I sport with solitude here in my regions,Of misadventure have made me a friend.Who would live largely? who would live freely?Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend.I am the lord of tempest and mountain,I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.Stark must he be and a kinsman to dangerWho shares my kingdom and walks at my side.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
With wind and the weather beating round meUp to the hill and the moorland I go.Who will come with me? Who will climb with me?Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?
Not in the petty circle of citiesCramped by your doors and your walls I dwell;Over me God is blue in the welkin,Against me the wind and the storm rebel.
I sport with solitude here in my regions,Of misadventure have made me a friend.Who would live largely? who would live freely?Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend.
I am the lord of tempest and mountain,I am the Spirit of freedom and pride.Stark must he be and a kinsman to dangerWho shares my kingdom and walks at my side.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
O thou golden image,Miniature of bliss,Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly!Every word deserves a kiss.Strange, remote, and splendidChildhood’s fancy pureThrills to thoughts we cannot fathom,Quick felicities obscure.When the eyes grow solemnLaughter fades away,Nature of her mighty childhoodRecollects the Titan play;Woodlands touched by sunlightWhere the elves abode,Giant meetings, Titan greetings,Fancies of a youthful God.These are coming on theeIn thy secret thought;God remembers in thy bosomAll the wonders that He wrought.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
O thou golden image,Miniature of bliss,Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly!Every word deserves a kiss.Strange, remote, and splendidChildhood’s fancy pureThrills to thoughts we cannot fathom,Quick felicities obscure.When the eyes grow solemnLaughter fades away,Nature of her mighty childhoodRecollects the Titan play;Woodlands touched by sunlightWhere the elves abode,Giant meetings, Titan greetings,Fancies of a youthful God.These are coming on theeIn thy secret thought;God remembers in thy bosomAll the wonders that He wrought.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
O thou golden image,Miniature of bliss,Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly!Every word deserves a kiss.
Strange, remote, and splendidChildhood’s fancy pureThrills to thoughts we cannot fathom,Quick felicities obscure.
When the eyes grow solemnLaughter fades away,Nature of her mighty childhoodRecollects the Titan play;
Woodlands touched by sunlightWhere the elves abode,Giant meetings, Titan greetings,Fancies of a youthful God.
These are coming on theeIn thy secret thought;God remembers in thy bosomAll the wonders that He wrought.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
A golden evening, when the thoughtful sunRejects its usual pomp in going, treesThat bend down to their green companionAnd fruitful mother, vaguely whispering—theseAnd a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
A golden evening, when the thoughtful sunRejects its usual pomp in going, treesThat bend down to their green companionAnd fruitful mother, vaguely whispering—theseAnd a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
A golden evening, when the thoughtful sunRejects its usual pomp in going, treesThat bend down to their green companionAnd fruitful mother, vaguely whispering—theseAnd a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed,And grasps with its innumerable handsThese silent walls. I see beyond a roughGlimmering infinity, I feel the washAnd hear the sibilation of the wavesThat whisper to each other as they pushTo shoreward side by side—long lines and dimOf movement flecked with quivering spots of foam,The quiet welter of a shifting world.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed,And grasps with its innumerable handsThese silent walls. I see beyond a roughGlimmering infinity, I feel the washAnd hear the sibilation of the wavesThat whisper to each other as they pushTo shoreward side by side—long lines and dimOf movement flecked with quivering spots of foam,The quiet welter of a shifting world.Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed,And grasps with its innumerable handsThese silent walls. I see beyond a roughGlimmering infinity, I feel the washAnd hear the sibilation of the wavesThat whisper to each other as they pushTo shoreward side by side—long lines and dimOf movement flecked with quivering spots of foam,The quiet welter of a shifting world.
Sri Aurobindo Ghose.
Aha! When Lachhi spills water,Spills water, spills water, spills water,There sandal grows—where Lachhi spills water.Aha! Lachhi asks the girls,The girls, the girls, the girls,Oh, what coloured veil suits a fair complexion?Aha! The girls said truly,Said truly, said truly, said truly,A veil that is black becomes a fair complexion.What then your fortune, Lachhi?Your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi?Ho! your boy like the moon, what then your fortune?Who’ll give you milk to drink, Lachhi?Drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi?Your friendship with the goatherds is sundered!Who’ll give you milk to drink?
Aha! When Lachhi spills water,Spills water, spills water, spills water,There sandal grows—where Lachhi spills water.Aha! Lachhi asks the girls,The girls, the girls, the girls,Oh, what coloured veil suits a fair complexion?Aha! The girls said truly,Said truly, said truly, said truly,A veil that is black becomes a fair complexion.What then your fortune, Lachhi?Your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi?Ho! your boy like the moon, what then your fortune?Who’ll give you milk to drink, Lachhi?Drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi?Your friendship with the goatherds is sundered!Who’ll give you milk to drink?
Aha! When Lachhi spills water,Spills water, spills water, spills water,There sandal grows—where Lachhi spills water.
Aha! Lachhi asks the girls,The girls, the girls, the girls,Oh, what coloured veil suits a fair complexion?
Aha! The girls said truly,Said truly, said truly, said truly,A veil that is black becomes a fair complexion.
What then your fortune, Lachhi?Your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi?Ho! your boy like the moon, what then your fortune?
Who’ll give you milk to drink, Lachhi?Drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi?Your friendship with the goatherds is sundered!Who’ll give you milk to drink?
[This song is sung to a purely folk-air, not in any definiterāg.]
Note.—The story goes that Gāmī wrote the song about a girl of Kutahār (a village in the Maraz pargana of Kāshmīr) named Azmē, and that it became the occasion of trouble for its author. Complaints were made about Gāmī, and his father reported the matter to the Tahsildār of the district; but the poet explainedthat Azmē meant “to-day” and that the whole song had only a Sufī significance.
Azmē, love of thee came to me, fortunate vision!Azmē, show me thy face, O darling.Azmē, love of thee, etc.Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām?An ill name I got in Kutahār!Azmē, love of thee, etc.I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār—Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.Pomegranate thy cheeks, orsaza-posh—How dark are thine eyes, my darling!Shining thy brows as though with sweat—How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers,I know not for whom, my darling!What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām,Matchless its handle, my darling!Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel,Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!Skilfully pounding the rice so fine,The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!Bright is her dress as a pearl,Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!Slowly combing her hair so fine—I will count up thy plaits, my darling!Kāmader has passed through Kutahār,All folk to him must yield (?), my darling!Hapless Māhmud, where shall he wait for thee?An ill name I won in Kutahār, my darling!Māhmud Gāmī.
Azmē, love of thee came to me, fortunate vision!Azmē, show me thy face, O darling.Azmē, love of thee, etc.Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām?An ill name I got in Kutahār!Azmē, love of thee, etc.I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār—Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.Pomegranate thy cheeks, orsaza-posh—How dark are thine eyes, my darling!Shining thy brows as though with sweat—How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers,I know not for whom, my darling!What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām,Matchless its handle, my darling!Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel,Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!Skilfully pounding the rice so fine,The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!Bright is her dress as a pearl,Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!Slowly combing her hair so fine—I will count up thy plaits, my darling!Kāmader has passed through Kutahār,All folk to him must yield (?), my darling!Hapless Māhmud, where shall he wait for thee?An ill name I won in Kutahār, my darling!Māhmud Gāmī.
Azmē, love of thee came to me, fortunate vision!Azmē, show me thy face, O darling.Azmē, love of thee, etc.
Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām?An ill name I got in Kutahār!Azmē, love of thee, etc.
I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār—Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.
Pomegranate thy cheeks, orsaza-posh—How dark are thine eyes, my darling!
Shining thy brows as though with sweat—How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!
Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers,I know not for whom, my darling!
What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām,Matchless its handle, my darling!
Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel,Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!
Skilfully pounding the rice so fine,The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!
Bright is her dress as a pearl,Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!
Slowly combing her hair so fine—I will count up thy plaits, my darling!
Kāmader has passed through Kutahār,All folk to him must yield (?), my darling!
Hapless Māhmud, where shall he wait for thee?An ill name I won in Kutahār, my darling!
Māhmud Gāmī.
Awake, my friend!Be glad, spring has come!Spread jasmine on the balconies,Lasting is the glory of jasmine!From afar I saw the Beloved come hither,ThatHourīcame to my courtyard!Breast to breast he embraced me before the people,Openly was his coming to be seen by any!Ah, burn my blood to clots of fondness,Accomplish (in my heart) the love of Islam!These things thou shouldst not reveal among drunkards,Lest to-morrow there be reproach!Māhmud Vāzah will tell the secret of Love,Hans Rāja shall he be named!Māhmud Vāzah.
Awake, my friend!Be glad, spring has come!Spread jasmine on the balconies,Lasting is the glory of jasmine!From afar I saw the Beloved come hither,ThatHourīcame to my courtyard!Breast to breast he embraced me before the people,Openly was his coming to be seen by any!Ah, burn my blood to clots of fondness,Accomplish (in my heart) the love of Islam!These things thou shouldst not reveal among drunkards,Lest to-morrow there be reproach!Māhmud Vāzah will tell the secret of Love,Hans Rāja shall he be named!Māhmud Vāzah.
Awake, my friend!Be glad, spring has come!
Spread jasmine on the balconies,Lasting is the glory of jasmine!
From afar I saw the Beloved come hither,ThatHourīcame to my courtyard!
Breast to breast he embraced me before the people,Openly was his coming to be seen by any!
Ah, burn my blood to clots of fondness,Accomplish (in my heart) the love of Islam!
These things thou shouldst not reveal among drunkards,Lest to-morrow there be reproach!
Māhmud Vāzah will tell the secret of Love,Hans Rāja shall he be named!
Māhmud Vāzah.
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shārikā Dēvī!Flower-beds are walled about—Flowers I’ll offer, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Rāginyā Dēvī!Lotus flowers are walled about—Milk I’ll pour her, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Zālā Dēvī!Mint-plants are walled about—Pūjā I’ll make, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shivajī!Sandal trees are walled about—I will anoint Him night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Nārāyan!Tulsi plants are walled about—Saffron I’ll rub night and morn!Ananda Coomaraswamy.
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shārikā Dēvī!Flower-beds are walled about—Flowers I’ll offer, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Rāginyā Dēvī!Lotus flowers are walled about—Milk I’ll pour her, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Zālā Dēvī!Mint-plants are walled about—Pūjā I’ll make, night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shivajī!Sandal trees are walled about—I will anoint Him night and morn!Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Nārāyan!Tulsi plants are walled about—Saffron I’ll rub night and morn!Ananda Coomaraswamy.
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shārikā Dēvī!Flower-beds are walled about—Flowers I’ll offer, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Rāginyā Dēvī!Lotus flowers are walled about—Milk I’ll pour her, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Zālā Dēvī!Mint-plants are walled about—Pūjā I’ll make, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Shivajī!Sandal trees are walled about—I will anoint Him night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom,All about Nārāyan!Tulsi plants are walled about—Saffron I’ll rub night and morn!
Ananda Coomaraswamy.
Note.—By the names Shārikā, Rāginyā, etc., are meant places as well as the divinities worshipped. Thus Shārikā (Satī, Pārvatī) is Hari Parbat, where there is a festival to Shārikā in March; Rāginyā (Kīr Bavānī) is an island at Inlamul, where there is a festival in May; Zālā (another form of Pārvatī) is a hill where there is a festival in June; Shivajī is a village in the Zainager pargana; Nārāyan is atīrthanear Bāramuta.
Quietly come, O Beauty, come!O! cups of wine I’ll fill for thee.Come to our house, O Beauty, come;Come as a guest, O Beauty, come:Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Borders twain thy veil adorn;At early dawn, O Beauty, rise—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!A silken border thy veil adorns;Father has sent thee a cradle of bells—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Hast thou come from the heavens, O lovely bird?Wilt come by thyself, or a snare shall I spread?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!He who made this golden bracelet,Was he only a goldsmith and never a master of craft?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Ananda Coomaraswamy.
Quietly come, O Beauty, come!O! cups of wine I’ll fill for thee.Come to our house, O Beauty, come;Come as a guest, O Beauty, come:Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Borders twain thy veil adorn;At early dawn, O Beauty, rise—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!A silken border thy veil adorns;Father has sent thee a cradle of bells—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Hast thou come from the heavens, O lovely bird?Wilt come by thyself, or a snare shall I spread?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!He who made this golden bracelet,Was he only a goldsmith and never a master of craft?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!Ananda Coomaraswamy.
Quietly come, O Beauty, come!O! cups of wine I’ll fill for thee.Come to our house, O Beauty, come;Come as a guest, O Beauty, come:Quietly come, O Beauty, come!
Borders twain thy veil adorn;At early dawn, O Beauty, rise—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!
A silken border thy veil adorns;Father has sent thee a cradle of bells—Quietly come, O Beauty, come!
Hast thou come from the heavens, O lovely bird?Wilt come by thyself, or a snare shall I spread?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!
He who made this golden bracelet,Was he only a goldsmith and never a master of craft?Quietly come, O Beauty, come!
Ananda Coomaraswamy.
The piping of the rain-birds has ceased,Dadarandpeepiyaare silent now,The dance of the peacock is over,It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The piping of the rain-birds has ceased,Dadarandpeepiyaare silent now,The dance of the peacock is over,It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The piping of the rain-birds has ceased,Dadarandpeepiyaare silent now,The dance of the peacock is over,It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The clouds have stopped their thunder,The lightning has hidden her spark,The floods of the Punjab rivers have rolled away,The rivers have shrunk low;The storm is over, and the winds blow soft and slow.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The clouds have stopped their thunder,The lightning has hidden her spark,The floods of the Punjab rivers have rolled away,The rivers have shrunk low;The storm is over, and the winds blow soft and slow.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The clouds have stopped their thunder,The lightning has hidden her spark,The floods of the Punjab rivers have rolled away,The rivers have shrunk low;The storm is over, and the winds blow soft and slow.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The sweet, sweet dew wets all with joy,Wet with joy are the night and the moon,And dewdrops quiver over the stars on high,And joy-wet blows the wind on my face.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The sweet, sweet dew wets all with joy,Wet with joy are the night and the moon,And dewdrops quiver over the stars on high,And joy-wet blows the wind on my face.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The sweet, sweet dew wets all with joy,Wet with joy are the night and the moon,And dewdrops quiver over the stars on high,And joy-wet blows the wind on my face.It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The cool, soft touches of the falling dew calm my soul;And my mind, blessed with the dew-joys calm and cool, is at rest!My beloved! come to me as the dew of my eyes!Come to-day as the dew cometh!And cool my soul parched by the pain of long, long separation!My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The cool, soft touches of the falling dew calm my soul;And my mind, blessed with the dew-joys calm and cool, is at rest!My beloved! come to me as the dew of my eyes!Come to-day as the dew cometh!And cool my soul parched by the pain of long, long separation!My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The cool, soft touches of the falling dew calm my soul;And my mind, blessed with the dew-joys calm and cool, is at rest!My beloved! come to me as the dew of my eyes!Come to-day as the dew cometh!And cool my soul parched by the pain of long, long separation!My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
O master of the order of theSeli![18]O dweller of heaven!O great giver!My Guru Nanak! Come to me to-day!O light of lights!Thy seats are the sun and the moon!My beloved! return to me to-day!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
O master of the order of theSeli![18]O dweller of heaven!O great giver!My Guru Nanak! Come to me to-day!O light of lights!Thy seats are the sun and the moon!My beloved! return to me to-day!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
O master of the order of theSeli![18]O dweller of heaven!O great giver!My Guru Nanak! Come to me to-day!O light of lights!Thy seats are the sun and the moon!My beloved! return to me to-day!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is the season of slumber and dew.Cruel is all separation!Pray remove the distances that divide me from thee.My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is the season of slumber and dew.Cruel is all separation!Pray remove the distances that divide me from thee.My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is the season of slumber and dew.Cruel is all separation!Pray remove the distances that divide me from thee.My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
My love! stay no more in distant lands away from me!Come into the vacant courtyard of my heart!Dye my soul with the joys of thy presence,And make it now thy home.Stay at home! Go no more out of me!Dwell in my soul, before my eyes!And for ever be there the perennial draught of my eyes.My love! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
My love! stay no more in distant lands away from me!Come into the vacant courtyard of my heart!Dye my soul with the joys of thy presence,And make it now thy home.Stay at home! Go no more out of me!Dwell in my soul, before my eyes!And for ever be there the perennial draught of my eyes.My love! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
My love! stay no more in distant lands away from me!Come into the vacant courtyard of my heart!Dye my soul with the joys of thy presence,And make it now thy home.Stay at home! Go no more out of me!Dwell in my soul, before my eyes!And for ever be there the perennial draught of my eyes.My love! it is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Fill my tearful gaze for ever with thy celestial face;And let my eyes be for ever wet with the joy of seeing thee!My love! dwell for ever in my eyes!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Fill my tearful gaze for ever with thy celestial face;And let my eyes be for ever wet with the joy of seeing thee!My love! dwell for ever in my eyes!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Fill my tearful gaze for ever with thy celestial face;And let my eyes be for ever wet with the joy of seeing thee!My love! dwell for ever in my eyes!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is now the dewy season,The season of the happy meetings of love,The season of the quenching of all fires of pain.To me everything seems to be dew-wet;From the blue of heaven the dew is falling soft;It is the dew of deep, deep unions;And wonder and worship is in the eyes.The separated ones shall meet!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is now the dewy season,The season of the happy meetings of love,The season of the quenching of all fires of pain.To me everything seems to be dew-wet;From the blue of heaven the dew is falling soft;It is the dew of deep, deep unions;And wonder and worship is in the eyes.The separated ones shall meet!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
It is now the dewy season,The season of the happy meetings of love,The season of the quenching of all fires of pain.To me everything seems to be dew-wet;From the blue of heaven the dew is falling soft;It is the dew of deep, deep unions;And wonder and worship is in the eyes.The separated ones shall meet!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Now is the time of everlasting embraces!My beloved! come, meet me to-day!Take me to thy bosom!The dew is flooding things with joy.My love! come to me!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Now is the time of everlasting embraces!My beloved! come, meet me to-day!Take me to thy bosom!The dew is flooding things with joy.My love! come to me!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
Now is the time of everlasting embraces!My beloved! come, meet me to-day!Take me to thy bosom!The dew is flooding things with joy.My love! come to me!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The dew cometh from heaven down!It bringeth heavenly peace for all,It wetteth all with sweetness.Invisible, it raineth deep into souls,It raineth love and peace and joy.It raineth sweetness.Dew! dew! my comrades!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The dew cometh from heaven down!It bringeth heavenly peace for all,It wetteth all with sweetness.Invisible, it raineth deep into souls,It raineth love and peace and joy.It raineth sweetness.Dew! dew! my comrades!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
The dew cometh from heaven down!It bringeth heavenly peace for all,It wetteth all with sweetness.Invisible, it raineth deep into souls,It raineth love and peace and joy.It raineth sweetness.Dew! dew! my comrades!It is the season of the cooling dew!The dew is falling everywhere,And wet is every rose.The gentle breath of heaven blows.
(Trans.)Puran Singh(Nārgās: Bhai Vir Singh).
(Trans.)Puran Singh(Nārgās: Bhai Vir Singh).
(Trans.)Puran Singh(Nārgās: Bhai Vir Singh).
Râjhans! The Golden Swan! Is it thy plumage that shines, or the sunrise on the eternal snows?
The dweller ofMân-Sarôwar, the lake on the roof of the world! Thy golden beak parts milk from water, in the living stream thou art a liberated soul!
A rosary of spotless pearls is in thy beak, and how sublime is the lofty curve of thy neck against the Heaven’s vast azure!
Thou livest on pearls, the nectar drops so pure of Hari Nam.
Great Soul! lover of the azure transparent Infinite! Thou canst not breathe out of theMân-Sarôwarair, nor canst thou live out of sight of those loftiest peaks of snow, and away from the diluted perfume of musk blowing from the wild trail of the deer!
Thou art the spirit of Beauty, thou art farbeyond the reach of human thought. Thy isolation reflecteth the glory of the starry sky in thy Nectar Lake of Heart in whose waters the sun daily dips himself!
Thou hast the limitless expanse of air, the companionship of fragrant gods,
And yet we know thou leavest those Fair Abodes to come to share the woes of human love;
Thou alightest unawares on the grain-filled barn of the humble farmer, awakening Nature’s maiden hearts, thou informest love.
It is thy delight to see woman love man, the small ripplings of a human heart in love flutter thee in thy lofty seat.
Thou art the soul liberated through love; thou knowest the worth of love, flying for its sake even midst the cities’ smoke and dust, perchance, to save a human soul through love!
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel”:Puran Singh.
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel”:Puran Singh.
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel”:Puran Singh.
Shapely poplar, shivering white, poplar like a maiden,Thinking, musing softly here, so light and so unladen,That with every breath and stir, perpetually you gladden,Teach me your still secrecies of thought that never sadden.From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion,Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men’s lowly fashion,Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation,Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palaceProffer their cathedral pomp, dawn her rosy chalice.Where the birds are, you shall throng and revel to be lonelyIn the blue of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
Shapely poplar, shivering white, poplar like a maiden,Thinking, musing softly here, so light and so unladen,That with every breath and stir, perpetually you gladden,Teach me your still secrecies of thought that never sadden.From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion,Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men’s lowly fashion,Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation,Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palaceProffer their cathedral pomp, dawn her rosy chalice.Where the birds are, you shall throng and revel to be lonelyIn the blue of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
Shapely poplar, shivering white, poplar like a maiden,Thinking, musing softly here, so light and so unladen,That with every breath and stir, perpetually you gladden,Teach me your still secrecies of thought that never sadden.
From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion,Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men’s lowly fashion,Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation,Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.
The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palaceProffer their cathedral pomp, dawn her rosy chalice.Where the birds are, you shall throng and revel to be lonelyIn the blue of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady,Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady,You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty,Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses,Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses;Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep sillyShadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awakingIn an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking;Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rockingTill their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver,Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces;Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning,Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning;Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish,Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger,You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger;You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion,Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.Manmohan Ghose.
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady,Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady,You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty,Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses,Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses;Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep sillyShadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awakingIn an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking;Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rockingTill their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver,Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces;Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning,Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning;Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish,Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger,You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger;You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion,Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.Manmohan Ghose.
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady,Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady,You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty,Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.
Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses,Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses;Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep sillyShadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.
Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awakingIn an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking;Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rockingTill their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.
Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver,Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces;Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.
Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning,Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning;Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish,Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?
In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger,You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger;You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion,Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.
Manmohan Ghose.