Part 4
Now lilies blow upon the windy height, Now flowers the pansy kissed by tender rain, Narcissus builds his house of self-delight And Love’s own fairest flower blooms again; Vainly your gems, O meadows, you recall; One simple girl breathes sweeter than you all.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._ (_Meleager._)
THE ISLAND GRAVE
Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moan Of the blue waves that like a shaken robe Two heard together once, one hears alone.
Now gliding white and hushed towards our globe Keen January with cold eyes and clear And snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobe
Ushers the firstborn of the radiant year. Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould, May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;
Haply his joyless fingers wan and cold Caress the ruined masses of thy hair, Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.
Art thou so desolate in that bitter air That even his breath feels warm upon thy face? Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,
And I will meet thee in that lonely place, Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days And death admit me to the silent ways.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
INVITATION
With wind and the weather beating round me Up to the hill and the moorland I go. Who will come with me? Who will climb with me? Wade through the brook and tramp through the snow?
Not in the petty circle of cities Cramped by your doors and your walls I dwell; Over me God is blue in the welkin, Against me the wind and the storm rebel.
I sport with solitude here in my regions, Of misadventure have made me a friend. Who would live largely? who would live freely? Here to the wind-swept uplands ascend.
I am the lord of tempest and mountain, I am the Spirit of freedom and pride. Stark must he be and a kinsman to danger Who shares my kingdom and walks at my side.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
A CHILD’S IMAGINATION
O thou golden image, Miniature of bliss, Speaking sweetly, speaking meetly! Every word deserves a kiss.
Strange, remote, and splendid Childhood’s fancy pure Thrills to thoughts we cannot fathom, Quick felicities obscure.
When the eyes grow solemn Laughter fades away, Nature of her mighty childhood Recollects the Titan play;
Woodlands touched by sunlight Where the elves abode, Giant meetings, Titan greetings, Fancies of a youthful God.
These are coming on thee In thy secret thought; God remembers in thy bosom All the wonders that He wrought.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
EVENING
A golden evening, when the thoughtful sun Rejects its usual pomp in going, trees That bend down to their green companion And fruitful mother, vaguely whispering--these And a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God, Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
THE SEA AT NIGHT
The grey sea creeps half-visible, half-hushed, And grasps with its innumerable hands These silent walls. I see beyond a rough Glimmering infinity, I feel the wash And hear the sibilation of the waves That whisper to each other as they push To shoreward side by side--long lines and dim Of movement flecked with quivering spots of foam, The quiet welter of a shifting world.
_Sri Aurobindo Ghose._
LACHHI
_From a well-known Panjābī folk-song_
Aha! When Lachhi spills water, Spills water, spills water, spills water, There sandal grows--where Lachhi spills water.
Aha! Lachhi asks the girls, The girls, the girls, the girls, Oh, what coloured veil suits a fair complexion?
Aha! The girls said truly, Said truly, said truly, said truly, A veil that is black becomes a fair complexion.
What then your fortune, Lachhi? Your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi, your fortune, Lachhi? Ho! your boy like the moon, what then your fortune?
Who’ll give you milk to drink, Lachhi? Drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi, drink Lachhi? Your friendship with the goatherds is sundered! Who’ll give you milk to drink?
[This song is sung to a purely folk-air, not in any definite _rāg_.]
AZMĒ
_Note._--The story goes that Gāmī wrote the song about a girl of Kutahār (a village in the Maraz pargana of Kāshmīr) named Azmē, and that it became the occasion of trouble for its author. Complaints were made about Gāmī, and his father reported the matter to the Tahsildār of the district; but the poet explained that Azmē meant “to-day” and that the whole song had only a Sufī significance.
Azmē, love of thee came to me, fortunate vision! Azmē, show me thy face, O darling. _Azmē, love of thee, etc._
Say where shall I wait, in Shāngas or Naugām? An ill name I got in Kutahār! _Azmē, love of thee, etc._
I sought thee in Achhaval, Brang, Kutahār-- Lakhs of hardships I suffered, my darling.
Pomegranate thy cheeks, or _saza-posh_-- How dark are thine eyes, my darling!
Shining thy brows as though with sweat-- How many a one thy nose has slain, my darling!
Sitting by the door, choosing saffron flowers, I know not for whom, my darling!
What a famous spinning-wheel is there in Kolgām, Matchless its handle, my darling!
Silver are the strings of thy spinning-wheel, Those who see it fall ill with wonder, my darling!
Skilfully pounding the rice so fine, The good shape of the cypress has Azmē, my darling!
Bright is her dress as a pearl, Short are the plaits of Azmē, my darling!
Slowly combing her hair so fine-- I will count up thy plaits, my darling!
Kāmader has passed through Kutahār, All folk to him must yield (?), my darling!
Hapless Māhmud, where shall he wait for thee? An ill name I won in Kutahār, my darling!
_Māhmud Gāmī._
AWAKE, MY FRIEND
Awake, my friend! Be glad, spring has come!
Spread jasmine on the balconies, Lasting is the glory of jasmine!
From afar I saw the Beloved come hither, That _Hourī_ came to my courtyard!
Breast to breast he embraced me before the people, Openly was his coming to be seen by any!
Ah, burn my blood to clots of fondness, Accomplish (in my heart) the love of Islam!
These things thou shouldst not reveal among drunkards, Lest to-morrow there be reproach!
Māhmud Vāzah will tell the secret of Love, Hans Rāja shall he be named!
_Māhmud Vāzah._
MARRIAGE SONG
Spring has come, with almond blossom, All about Shārikā Dēvī! Flower-beds are walled about-- Flowers I’ll offer, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom, All about Rāginyā Dēvī! Lotus flowers are walled about-- Milk I’ll pour her, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom, All about Zālā Dēvī! Mint-plants are walled about-- Pūjā I’ll make, night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom, All about Shivajī! Sandal trees are walled about-- I will anoint Him night and morn!
Spring has come, with almond blossom, All about Nārāyan! Tulsi plants are walled about-- Saffron I’ll rub night and morn!
_Ananda Coomaraswamy._
_Note._--By the names Shārikā, Rāginyā, etc., are meant places as well as the divinities worshipped. Thus Shārikā (Satī, Pārvatī) is Hari Parbat, where there is a festival to Shārikā in March; Rāginyā (Kīr Bavānī) is an island at Inlamul, where there is a festival in May; Zālā (another form of Pārvatī) is a hill where there is a festival in June; Shivajī is a village in the Zainager pargana; Nārāyan is a _tīrtha_ near Bāramuta.
MYSTIC LOVE SONG FROM “THIRTY INDIAN SONGS”
_Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_ O! cups of wine I’ll fill for thee. Come to our house, O Beauty, come; Come as a guest, O Beauty, come: _Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_
Borders twain thy veil adorn; At early dawn, O Beauty, rise-- _Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_
A silken border thy veil adorns; Father has sent thee a cradle of bells-- _Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_
Hast thou come from the heavens, O lovely bird? Wilt come by thyself, or a snare shall I spread? _Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_
He who made this golden bracelet, Was he only a goldsmith and never a master of craft? _Quietly come, O Beauty, come!_
_Ananda Coomaraswamy._
THE PUNJAB AUTUMN: THE SEASON OF THE COOLING DEW
(_Composed on the birthday of Guru Nanak, 1916_)
I
The piping of the rain-birds has ceased, _Dadar_ and _peepiya_ are silent now, The dance of the peacock is over, It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
II
The clouds have stopped their thunder, The lightning has hidden her spark, The floods of the Punjab rivers have rolled away, The rivers have shrunk low; The storm is over, and the winds blow soft and slow. It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
III
The sweet, sweet dew wets all with joy, Wet with joy are the night and the moon, And dewdrops quiver over the stars on high, And joy-wet blows the wind on my face. It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
IV
The cool, soft touches of the falling dew calm my soul; And my mind, blessed with the dew-joys calm and cool, is at rest! My beloved! come to me as the dew of my eyes! Come to-day as the dew cometh! And cool my soul parched by the pain of long, long separation! My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
V
O master of the order of the _Seli_![18] O dweller of heaven! O great giver! My Guru Nanak! Come to me to-day! O light of lights! Thy seats are the sun and the moon! My beloved! return to me to-day! It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VI
It is the season of slumber and dew. Cruel is all separation! Pray remove the distances that divide me from thee. My beloved! it is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VII
My love! stay no more in distant lands away from me! Come into the vacant courtyard of my heart! Dye my soul with the joys of thy presence, And make it now thy home. Stay at home! Go no more out of me! Dwell in my soul, before my eyes! And for ever be there the perennial draught of my eyes. My love! it is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
VIII
Fill my tearful gaze for ever with thy celestial face; And let my eyes be for ever wet with the joy of seeing thee! My love! dwell for ever in my eyes! It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
IX
It is now the dewy season, The season of the happy meetings of love, The season of the quenching of all fires of pain. To me everything seems to be dew-wet; From the blue of heaven the dew is falling soft; It is the dew of deep, deep unions; And wonder and worship is in the eyes. The separated ones shall meet! It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
X
Now is the time of everlasting embraces! My beloved! come, meet me to-day! Take me to thy bosom! The dew is flooding things with joy. My love! come to me! It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
XI
The dew cometh from heaven down! It bringeth heavenly peace for all, It wetteth all with sweetness. Invisible, it raineth deep into souls, It raineth love and peace and joy. It raineth sweetness. Dew! dew! my comrades! It is the season of the cooling dew! The dew is falling everywhere, And wet is every rose. The gentle breath of heaven blows.
(Trans.) _Puran Singh_ (_Nārgās: Bhai Vir Singh_).
RÂJHANS (THE PRINCE OF SWANS)
Râjhans! The Golden Swan! Is it thy plumage that shines, or the sunrise on the eternal snows?
The dweller of _Mân-Sarôwar_, the lake on the roof of the world! Thy golden beak parts milk from water, in the living stream thou art a liberated soul!
A rosary of spotless pearls is in thy beak, and how sublime is the lofty curve of thy neck against the Heaven’s vast azure!
Thou livest on pearls, the nectar drops so pure of Hari Nam.
Great Soul! lover of the azure transparent Infinite! Thou canst not breathe out of the _Mân-Sarôwar_ air, nor canst thou live out of sight of those loftiest peaks of snow, and away from the diluted perfume of musk blowing from the wild trail of the deer!
Thou art the spirit of Beauty, thou art far beyond the reach of human thought. Thy isolation reflecteth the glory of the starry sky in thy Nectar Lake of Heart in whose waters the sun daily dips himself!
Thou hast the limitless expanse of air, the companionship of fragrant gods,
And yet we know thou leavest those Fair Abodes to come to share the woes of human love;
Thou alightest unawares on the grain-filled barn of the humble farmer, awakening Nature’s maiden hearts, thou informest love.
It is thy delight to see woman love man, the small ripplings of a human heart in love flutter thee in thy lofty seat.
Thou art the soul liberated through love; thou knowest the worth of love, flying for its sake even midst the cities’ smoke and dust, perchance, to save a human soul through love!
“Sisters of the Spinning-Wheel”: _Puran Singh_.
LATER LYRICS: POPLAR, BEECH, AND WEEPING WILLOW
I
Shapely poplar, shivering white, poplar like a maiden, Thinking, musing softly here, so light and so unladen, That with every breath and stir, perpetually you gladden, Teach me your still secrecies of thought that never sadden.
From the heavy-hearted earth, earth of grief and passion, Maiden, would you spring with me, and leave men’s lowly fashion, Skyward lift with me your thoughts in cumberless elation, Every leaf and every shoot a virgin aspiration.
The blue day, the floating clouds, the stars shall you for palace Proffer their cathedral pomp, dawn her rosy chalice. Where the birds are, you shall throng and revel to be lonely In the blue of heaven to spire and sway with breezes only.
II
Beech, of leafy isles the queen, beech, of trees the lady, Soaring to a tower of sighs, in branches soft and shady, You that sunward lift your strength, to make of shadow duty, Teach me, tree, your heavenly height, and earth-remembering beauty.
Maiden, would you soar like me, with day-upclouding tresses, Beauty into bounty change, bend down the eye that blesses; Make from heaven a shelter cool, to shepherd and sheep silly Shadowing with shadiness, hot rose and fainting lily.
Through your glorious heart of gloom, the noonday wind awaking In an ecstasy shall set swaying, blowing, shaking; Leafy branches, in their nests set the sweet birds rocking Till their happy song break out, the noonday ardour mocking.
Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river, Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver, Teach me, steadfast sorrower, your mournful grace of graces; Weeping to make beautiful the silent water-places.
Maiden, would you learn of me the loveliness of mourning, Droop into the chill, wan wave, strength, hardness, lofty scorning; Drench your drooping soul in tears, content to love and languish, Gaze in sorrow’s looking-glass, and see the face of anguish?
In the very wash of woe, as your bowed soul shall linger, You shall touch the sheer, bright stars, and on the moon set finger; You shall hear, where brooks have birth, the mountain-pine’s emotion, Catch upon the broadening stream the sound and swell of ocean.
_Manmohan Ghose._
ORPHIC MYSTERIES: THE YELLOW BUTTERFLY
Of all shy visitants, I love That darling butterfly, Whose wings are to the cornfield’s wave A hovering reply.
Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripe He suns with his gay youth, And feeds me with the gold of light, The thrice-tried gleam of truth.
When, glooming back upon myself, The garden path I pace, He comes and makes my gladdened eyes The dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign! No sooner am I out, He hovers by on golden wings To chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh, Winnow the blissful grain Of immortality, and sift From mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows; Ever his gladsome morn Shines down the blackness of my grief With glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height, Now o’er the garden wall; From far-off places, or where first The wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowers Beneath her window-sill, Her chamber-window, where he warms Homeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roof He to my awful eye His radiant message angels me From azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heart Feel God’s fair world a blank. Straight for the sunny thought of her His yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want, Weep like a thwarted boy, Cry outright, but with darting gold He chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracle Ever renewed, the fear, I lose in charmed tranquillity, For she, my saint, is here.
Who works it? No dead relic sweet Of her, my living saint, Perfect beyond the skill of thought Of fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdom She is arisen. No tomb Could hold her, no far blissful heaven Allure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks, This garden, where the flowers Swing censers breathing up to God, This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand, Gilded, illuminate, Paints how she suffered, loved and died-- The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitude To her; her loved ones still, So loving she, here, here, enskyed To guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, still A guardian spirit, she Heals, comforts, counsels, and performs Her angel ministry.
_Manmohan Ghose._
MYVANWY
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying, ’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music. Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy, Fairest of maidens.
Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaning At the open window, thy hand deep-buried In dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazest O’er the wide ocean.
Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance, Is my own country, and other soil bore me Than thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’s Nourished my spirit.
Yet for this slight not my heart as alien: What can green England show to match those regions Save thyself only, what hath she that merits Prouder remembrance?
Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean, Nothing can match their beauty! If Myvanwy Had but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom, She too would say so.
She too would say so, and back in thought returning, How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness, How would she marvel, the lovely maiden, Breathless with gazing!
There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountains Rise with their ages of snows to heaven, Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they, Fearfully lovely:
There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature, The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there, All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, delicious Fruits of the tropics; And the vast elephant that dreams for ages, Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers: Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour, Pace to behold her?
Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle, Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture! How shall I picture to her all the strangeness, All the enchantment,
In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faints And my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy, Deep in the east where now but evening gathers, Lost is my country.
Long ago hither in passionate boyhood, Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wandered Over the bitter foam: so far Fate led me Only to love thee.
Lost is that country, and all but forgotten ’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me, All her meridian suns and ardent summers Burn in my bosom.
_Manmohan Ghose._
KISMET
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate, Ordained us happy or unfortunate, And wrote upon our brow and on our hands The signs that tell to him who understands Our Destiny, decreed for good or ill. So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will, Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.
One child is cherished; one to hands unkind Is given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn; One longs to die, but Death when called upon Turns from the supplicating voice his ear; One starves in poverty; one is Amir And drives his elephant in lordly state; One lives in love; one girdled round with hate Dwells ever in a bitter world of strife; One in the moment of this earthly life Is ruler, sitting on a regal seat; One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.
And Allah changes all as He desires, He is an artist whom His art inspires: This world the picture He is painting still. But with his share of fate He gave man will To fashion circumstance by its control, To make a path of healing for his soul, To act, to think, to feel aright until He knows his will as one with Allah’s will.
_Inayat Khan._
TANSEN