Chapter II: Night in the Plains

The plains lie in the furnace of the year
And sleep, repenting, hides from men his boon,
And flagging life strains fitfully to hear
The tardy footstep of the slow monsoon.
All day the stones, the dust upon the plain,
From never-changing skies the heat have drawn,
And darkness brings no solace in its train
--The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn.

There is no rest; from out the heavy skies
The burning planets hang; now near, now far,
Shrilly the women’s voices fall and rise,
Crying to Kali in the hot bazaar.
There is no nightwatch but will end at last,
There is no vigil but will pass away,
The time wears on, the moon is setting fast
--The breeze will rise an hour before the day.

Life crouches low and fear is with the strong,
On every side the crawling time to mark,
There sound, like fevered pulses all night long,
The tom-toms, throbbing in the stifling dark;
A puff of odour from the jasmine-tree
Comes by the well across the parching lawn,
See where the hosts of heaven stand patiently,
--The breeze will rise an hour before the dawn.

The sick men toss, the breathless air is still;
Along the ward one slow, soft whisper falls,
Where Death’s grim angel waits to have his will
Within the shadow of the whitewashed walls;
And women’s steadfast eyes are fixed upon
The lurking shape whose hand they keep at bay,
Stand up, O souls of men, fight on, fight on!
--The breeze will rise an hour before the day.

Is that a shiver in the tamarind,
Or some awakening bird that stirs the leaves?
Turn, turn to sleep, there comes a breath of wind
And mainas talk by the verandah-eaves;
A little space to sleep and to forget
Before the tyrant sun begins his sway,
Ere in the heavens his brazen throne be set
--God give us strength to face the coming day.

❦