Mest læste ▸
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?
The destined bullet wounded him,
They brought him down to die,
Far-off a bugle sounded him
“Retreat,” Good-bye.
Strange, that from ways so hated,
And tyranny so hard
Should come this strangely fated
And farewell word.
He thought, “Some Old Sweat might
Have thrilled at heart to hear,
Gone down into the night
Too proud to fear!
But I--the fool at arms,
Musician, poet to boot,
Who hail release; what charms
In this salute?”
The opal afternoon
Is cool, and very still.
A wash of tawny air,
Sea-green that melts to gold,
Bathes all the skyline, hill by hill.
Out of the black-topped pinelands
A black crow calls,
And the year seems old!
A woman from a doorway sings,
And from the valley-slope a sheep-dog barks,
And through the umber woods the echo falls.
Then silence on the still world lies,
And faint and far the birds fly south,
And behind the dark pines drops the sun,
And a small wind wakes and sighs,
And Summer, see, is done!
It can't be "Summer"!
That -- got through!
It's early -- yet -- for "Spring"!
There's that long town of White -- to cross --
Before the Blackbirds sing!
It can't be "Dying"!
It's too Rouge --
The Dead shall go in White --
So Sunset shuts my question down
With Cuffs of Chrysolite!
fallen leaves
slip into my boots
as if having invented flying
off the handle
they’re eager to plunge still further
become agents provocateurs
going to and fro in the earth
and walking up and down in it
like old scratch when he has
a job to do
but what bold and lurid
colors to go out in
painting the town
a sunset red
spiderlings before we were dust
how we crawled
while you watched the sunset
i watched darkness climb the trees
though the sky never
really gets dark any more
i began growing a hump
as a form of protest
and now it looms invisibly
over my every croak and cry
i call it O for Oblivion
as well as the Obvious
what i thought were spiderlings
was the detritus of their eggs
in the right light
anything can look promising
sunset and evening star
that smell of pine comes
from a bottle
tapping & tugging
at the side of the tent
early morning wind
around the headland
from the seal sculpture
this one moves
at the Osprey Center
a crowd gathers to watch
squirrels on the feeder
no does to herd
the solitary stag haunts
a caravan park
blood-red sunset
I raise the midge net
to take a nip
with each wingbeat
Harbor at sunset.
A boy fires his air gun
into the water.
A bus and car
squeeze past each other
at the standing stone.
Crowded campground.
A fat herring gull walks
between the tents.
Even the gods love jokes*
as sunset bleeds crimson
across the Olympics;
makes lemonade from smog,
while avalanche lilies
remain patient under
the retreating snowlines.
Wildflowers blooming
dazzle the beholder,
blind to nature’s trauma.
No longer staunch sentries,
glaciers shrink from duty,
exposing human faults.
Even the gods love jokes.
Why am I not laughing?
Water flows so fast but
They can't match my thoughts
Disturbing my mind
Birds sang so sweet and louder
I looked up
That orange bright light made my day
Lighting up me and world
Telling me to let down everything go
As it goes
had
you
at sunset
lost
you
at dawn