My Dead Dream
VE
OU found me, at last,
O my Dream?
Seven eons ago You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow.
Why have you come hither?
Who bade you awake from your sleep And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep?
Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves?
Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves?
Would you touch and defile with dead fingers the robes of my priest?
Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast?
Go back to your grave,
O my Dream, under forests of snow,
Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven eons ago.
Who bade you arise from your darkness?
I bid you depart!
Profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart.
Sarojini Naidu
Other author posts
The Royal Tombs Of Golconda
I SE among these silent fanes Whose spacious darkness guards your dust; Around me sleep the hoary plains That hold your ancient wars in trust I pause, my dreaming spirit hears,
Song Of A Dream
CE in the dream of a night I stood Lone in the light of a magical wood, Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang; And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang, And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed,
The Poet To Death
RY 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
Leili
HE serpents are asleep among the poppies, The fireflies light the soundless panther's way To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying, And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day O soft