Sarojini Naidu
Indian Weavers
WEAVERS, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . . Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child. Weavers,
To My Children
Jaya Surya GOLDEN sun of victory, born In my life’s unclouded morn, In my lambent sky of love, May your growing glory prove Sacred to your consecration, To my heart and to my nation.
Harvest Hymn
Mens Voices: LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest, Bright and munificent lord of the morn! Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing, Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn. We
Damayante To Nala In The Hour Of Exile
SHALT thou be conquered of a human fate My liege, my lover, whose imperial head Hath never bent in sorrow of defeat? Shalt thou be vanquished, whose imperial feet Have shattered armies and stamped
The Poet To Death
TARRY a while, O Death, I cannot die While yet my sweet life burgeons with its spring; Fair is my youth, and rich the echoing boughs Where dhadikulas sing. Tarry a while, O Death,
The Song Of Princess Zeb-Un-Nissa In Praise Of Her Own Beauty
WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil, The roses turn with envy pale, And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain, Send forth their fragrance like a wail. Or if perchance one perfumed
Transcience
Nay, do not grieve tho’ life be full of sadness, Dawn will not veil her spleandor for your grief, Nor spring deny their bright, appointed beauty To lotus blossom and ashoka leaf. Nay, do
Suttee
LAMP of my life, the lips of Death Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath; Naught shall revive thy vanished spark. . . Love, must I dwell in the living dark? Tree of
In The Forest
HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead, Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red,
Village Song
HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going? Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing? Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you? Would you grieve the
Indian Love Song
She LIKE a serpent to the calling voice of flutes, Glides my heart into thy fingers, O my Love! Where the night-wind, like a lover, leans above His jasmine-gardens and sirisha-bowers; And on ripe
A Rajput Love Song
(Parvati at her lattice) O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine Among my tresses, A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve, O Love! were you the keora’s soul that
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-fiies Dance through the fairy neem;
Indian Dancer
EYES ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth heavens that glimmer around them in fountains of light; O wild and entrancing the
Palanquin Bearers
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