Chapter 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._

A ROSE OF WOMEN

Now lilies blow upon the windy height,
Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain,
Narcissus builds his house of self-delight
And 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._)

THE ISLAND GRAVE

Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moan
Of the blue waves that like a shaken robe
Two heard together once, one hears alone.

Now gliding white and hushed towards our globe
Keen January with cold eyes and clear
And 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 cold
Caress the ruined masses of thy hair,
Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.

Art thou so desolate in that bitter air
That 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 days
And death admit me to the silent ways.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

INVITATION

With wind and the weather beating round me
Up 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 cities
Cramped 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 danger
Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

A CHILD’S IMAGINATION

O thou golden image,
Miniature of bliss,
Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly!
Every word deserves a kiss.

Strange, remote, and splendid
Childhood’s fancy pure
Thrills to thoughts we cannot fathom,
Quick felicities obscure.

When the eyes grow solemn
Laughter fades away,
Nature of her mighty childhood
Recollects the Titan play;

Woodlands touched by sunlight
Where the elves abode,
Giant meetings, Titan greetings,
Fancies of a youthful God.

These are coming on thee
In thy secret thought;
God remembers in thy bosom
All the wonders that He wrought.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

EVENING

A golden evening, when the thoughtful sun
Rejects its usual pomp in going, trees
That bend down to their green companion
And fruitful mother, vaguely whispering--these
And 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 SEA AT NIGHT

The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed,
And grasps with its innumerable hands
These silent walls. I see beyond a rough
Glimmering infinity, I feel the wash
And hear the sibilation of the waves
That whisper to each other as they push
To shoreward side by side--long lines and dim
Of movement flecked with quivering spots of foam,
The quiet welter of a shifting world.

_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._

LACHHI

_From a well-known Panjābī folk-song_

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 definite _rāg_.]

AZMĒ

_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 explained that 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, or _saza-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

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,
That _Hourī_ came 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._

MARRIAGE SONG

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 a _tīrtha_ near Bāramuta.

MYSTIC LOVE SONG FROM “THIRTY INDIAN SONGS”

_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 PUNJAB AUTUMN: THE SEASON OF THE COOLING DEW

(_Composed on the birthday of Guru Nanak, 1916_)

I

The piping of the rain-birds has ceased,
_Dadar_ and _peepiya_ are 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.

II

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.