Classic Poem

1

S ONG

In the dusk, as it falls
On the last golden hour,
The enamoured maiden
Takes a honeyed flower,

A flower the bees kiss,
Part and kiss, hovering near;
Its tendrils light as finger-tips
She twines about her ear.
2

S AKUNTALA AND THE Wood -N YMPHS OF THE G ARDEN

HARITA

Lo, there was hanging from a certain tree
A robe of finest linen, as if those
Who wove it had assured the wearer bliss;
Never was moon so white. Another stem
Oozed from its bark droppings of rosy juice
For the staining of her feet; and from another
Wood-nymphs were stretching out their little hands,
Far as the wrist, slender as shoots of spring,
To offer her bright ornaments, all gold.

*****

KANWA

Hither, Sakuntala, come hither; pace
With pure feet round the sacrificial fire.

Now let the fire upon the altar
From the sacred hearth that's taken
And fed with logs of hallowed wood
And with grass all round it shaken,
Let the fire assoiling
With its holy glow
Of burnt offerings' piercing odour
Purify thee now!

Hearken, you neighbor trees of the holy grove.
She who would never seek to quench her thirst
Before she had refreshed your thirsty roots,
Who, tho' she loved ornaments, never plucked
One flower of yours, because of love for you,
Whose time of joy was your young burst of bloom,
She, even she, Sakuntala, departs.
With kindness, all of you, and tender breathings
Out of your branches comfort her farewell.

SARNGARAVA

Father, the trees are answering your prayer
In bird notes, cooing comfort and sweet boon,
Singing their farewell to Sakuntala,
Their sister, nurtured in their own green grove.
May many a pool about her path refresh her wandering eye
Vivid with lazy lotus-leaves; may happy trees on high
Temper the noon, and sultry light a breezy shadow sift,
The dust beneath her feet be soft as lotus-pollen drift;
Her path be cheered with favoring airs and resting places find
At evening laid in pleasantness and altogether kind.

GAUTAMI

My daughter, hark, nymphs of the grove that love you
As their own kind, sing blessings on your journey.
Make your obeisance to these holy nymphs.

H E I S L OATHE TO G O

My limbs move forward, while my heart flies back,
Like silken standard borne against the breeze.

The dynasty of Raghu
1

T HE K ING'S J OY IN H IS S ON

The king drank pleasure from him late and soon
With eyes that stared like windless lotus-flowers;
Unselfish joy expanded all his powers
As swells the sea responsive to the moon.

The rooted love that filled each parent's soul
For the other, deep as bird's love for the mate,
Was now divided with the boy; and straight
The remaining half proved greater than the whole.

He learned the reverence that befits a boy;
Following the nurse's words, began to talk;
And clinging to her finger, learned to walk;
These childish lessons stretched his father's joy,

Who clasped the baby to his breast, and thrilled
To feel the nectar-touch upon his skin,
Half closed his eyes, the father's bliss to win
Which, more for long delay, his being filled.

The baby hair must needs be clipped; yet he
Retained two dangling locks, his cheeks to fret;
And down the river of the alphabet
He swam, with other boys, to learning's sea.

Religion's rites, and what good learning suits
A prince, he had from teachers old and wise;
Not theirs the pain of barren enterprise,
For effort spent on good material, fruits.

2

F ROM " A JA'S L AMENT OVER H IS D EAD W IFE "

Through all the years, dear, you would not reprove me,
Though I offended. Can you go away
Sudden, without a word? I know you love me,
And I have not offended you to-day.

You surely thought me faithless, to be banished
As light-of-love and gambler, from your life,
Because without a farewell word, you vanished
And never will return, sweet-smiling wife.

Your bee-black hair from which the flowers are peeping,
Dear, wavy hair that I have loved so well,
Stirs in the wind until I think you sleeping,
Soon to return and make my glad heart swell.

Your low, sweet voice to nightingales was given;
Your idly graceful movement to the swans;
Your grace to fluttering vines, dear wife in heaven;
Your trustful, wide-eyed glances to the fawns:

You left your charms on earth, that I, reminded
By them, might be consoled though you depart;
But vainly! Far from you, by sorrow blinded,
I find no prop of comfort for my heart.

Joy's sun is down, all love is fallen and perished,
The song of life is sung, the spring is dead,
Gone is the use of gems that once you cherished,
And empty, ever empty, is my bed.

You were my comrade gay, my home, my treasure,
You were my bosom's friend, in all things true,
My best-loved pupil in the arts of pleasure:
Stern death took all I had in taking you.

Still am I king, and rich in kingly fashion,
Yet lacking you, am poor the long years through;
I cannot now be won to any passion,
For all my passions centered, dear, in you.