Sarojini Naidu

Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow, The sunset hangs on a cloud; A golden storm of glittering sheaves, Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, The wild wind blows in a cloud.

Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind: My heart is weary and sad and alone, For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your essence. The lilt of a bulbul, the laugh of a rose, The dance of the dew on the wings of a moonbeam. The voice of the zephyr that sings as he goes. The hope of a bride or the dream of a maiden Watching the petals of gladness unclose ?

Springtime, O Springtime, what is your secret. The bliss at the core of your magical mirth. That quickens the pulse of the morning to wonder And hastens the seeds of all beauty to birth. That captures the heavens and conquers to blossom The roots of delight in the heart of the earth ?

Nay, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness, Dawn will not veil her splendour for your grief. Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf.

Nay, do not pine, tho' life be dark with trouble. Time will not pause or tarry on his way ; To-day that seems so long, so strange, so bitter. Will soon be some forgotten yesterday.

Nay, do not weep ; new hopes, new dreams, new faces, The unspent joy of all the unborn years. Will prove your heart a traitor to its sorrow. And make your eyes unfaithful to their tears.

Sleep, O my little ones, sleep. Safe till the daylight be breaking . . . We have long vigils to keep, Harvests to sow while you sleep. Fair for the hour of your waking, Ripe for your sickles to reap.

Sleep, O my little ones, sleep. Yours is the golden To-morrow, Yours are the hands that will reap Dreams that we sow while you sleep. Fed with our hope and our sorrow, Rich with the tears that we weep.

The poppy grows on the roof-top, The iris flowers on the grave ; Hope in the heart of a lover. And fear in the heart of a slave.

The opal lies in the river. The pearl in the ocean's breast ; Doubt in a grieving bosom, And faith in a heart at rest.

Fireflies dance in the moon-light. Peach-leaves dance in the wind ; Dreams and delicate fancies Dance thro' a poet's mind.

Sweetness dwells in the beehive, And lives in a maiden's breath ; Joy in the eyes of children And peace in the hands of Death.

Bright shower of lambent butterflies, Soft cloud of murmuring bees, O fragile storm of sighing leaves Adrift upon the breeze !

Wild birds with eager wings outspread To seek an alien sky. Sweet comrades of a lyric spring. My little songs, good-bye !

Lightly, O lightly we bear her along, She sways like a flower in the wind of our song; She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream, She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream. Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Softly, O softly we bear her along, She hangs like a star in the dew of our song; She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide, She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride. Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Like this alabaster box whose art Is frail as a cassia-flower, is my heart, Carven with delicate dreams and wrought With many a subtle and exquisite thought.

Therein I treasure the spice and scent Of rich and passionate memories blent Like odours of cinnamon, sandal and clove, Of song and sorrow and life and love.