Saraswati with the Lotus BANKIM CHANDRA CHATTERJI. OBIIT 1894 Thy tears fall fast, O mother, on its bloom. O white-armed mother, like honey fall thy tears; Yet even their sweetness can no more relume The golden light, the fragrance heaven rears, The fragrance and the light for ever shed, Upon his lips immortal who is dead. Goethe A perfect face amid barbarian faces, A perfect voice of sweet and serious rhyme, Traveller with calm, inimitable paces, Critic with judgment absolute to all time, A complete strength when men were maimed and weak, German obscured the spirit of a Greek.

-54_The Children of Wotan (1940).htm The Children of Wotan (1940) “Where is the end of your armoured march, O children of Wotan? Earth shudders with fear at your tread, the death-flame laughs in your eyes.” “We have seen the sign of Thor and the hammer of new creation, A seed of blood on the soil, a flower of blood in the skies. We march to make of earth a hell and call it heaven. The heart of mankind we have smitten with the whip of the sorrows seven; The Mother of God lies bleeding in our black and gold sunrise.” “I hear the cry of a broken world, O children of Wotan.” “Question the volcano when it burns, chide the fire and bitumen! Suffering is the

                               

SHORT POEMS 1902 -1930 The Mother of Dreams Goddess supreme, Mother of Dream, by thy ivory doors when thou standest, Who are they then that come down unto men in thy visions that troop, group upon group, down the path of the shadows slanting? Dream after dream, they flash and they gleam with the flame of the stars still around them; Shadows at thy side in a darkness ride where the wild fires dance, stars glow and glance and the random meteor glistens; There are voices that cry to their kin who reply; voices sweet, at the heart they beat and ravish the soul as itlistens. What then are these lands and these gold

The Fear of Death Death wanders through our lives at will, sweet Death Is busy with each intake of our breath. Why do you fear her? Lo, her laughing face All rosy with the light of jocund grace! A kind and lovely maiden culling flowers In a sweet garden fresh with vernal showers, This is the thing you fear, young portress bright, Who opens to our souls the worlds of light. Is it because the twisted stem must feel Pain when the tenderest hands its glory steal? Is it because the flowerless stalk droops dull And ghastly now that was so beautiful? Or is it the opening portal’s horrid jar That shakes you, feeble souls of courage bar

The Triumph-Song of Trishuncou I shall not die. Although this body, when the spirit tires Of its cramped residence, shall feed the fires, My house consumes, not I. Leaving that case I find out ample and ethereal room. My spirit shall avoid the hungry tomb, Deceiving death’s embrace. Night shall contain The sun in its cold depths; Time too must cease; The stars that labour shall have their release. I cease not, I remain. Ere the first seeds Were sown on earth, I was already old, And when now unborn planets shall grow cold My history proceeds. I am the light In stars, the streng

The Birth of Sin Lucifer, Sirioth LUCIFER What mighty and ineffable desire Impels thee, Sirioth? Thy accustomed calm Is potently subverted and the eyes That were a god’s in sweet tranquillity, Confess a human warmth, a troubled glow. SIRIOTH Lucifer, son of Morning, Angel! Thou Art mightiest of the architects of fate. To thee is given with thy magic gaze Compelling mortals as thou leanst sublime From heaven’s lucent walls, to sway the world. Is thy felicity of lesser date, Prince of the patient and untiring gods, The gods who work? Dost thou not ever feel Angelic weariness usurp the plac

Night by the Sea Love, a moment drop thy hands; Night within my soul expands. Veil thy beauties milk-rose-fair In that dark and showering hair. Coral kisses ravish not When the soul is tinged with thought; Burning looks are then forbid. Let each shyly-parted lid Hover like a settling dove O’er those deep-blue wells of Love. Darkness brightens; silvering flee Pomps of foam the driven sea. In this garden’s dim repose Lighted with the burning rose, Soft narcissi’s golden camp Glimmering or with rosier lamp Censered honeysuckle guessed By the fragrance of her breast, — Here where summ

Is this the end Is this the end of all that we have been, And all we did or dreamed, - A name unremembered and a form undone, - Is this the end? A body rotting under a slab of stone Or turned to ash in fire, A mind dissolved, lost its forgotten thoughts, - Is this the end? Our little hours that were and are no more, Our passions once so high Being mocked by the still earth and calm sunshine, - Is this the end? Our yearnings for the human Godward climb Passing to other hearts Deceived, while smiles towards death and hell the world, - Is this the end? Fallen is the harp; shattered it lies and mute; Is the unseen p

IV ON QUANTITATIVE METRE An Essay On Quantitative Metre THE REASON OF THE PAST FAILURES A definitive verdict seems to have been pronounced by the critical mind on the long-continued attempt to introduce quantitative metres into English poetry. It is evident that the attempt has failed, and it can even be affirmed that it was predestined to failure; quantitative metre is something alien to the rhythm of the language. Pure quantity, dependent primarily on the length or brevity of the vowel of the syllable, but partly also on the consonants on which the vowel sustains itself, quality as it was understood in the ancient classical languages,