The them and content of his
And that too seen from his angle
Of the spectrum of the age and the spirit of times
In which he was born and reared.
A critic he was of Dryden, Pope and Cowley,
Not of Milton and Gray though he admired them,
He was but a neo-classical critic
From the school of satires and wits
Whose doctrines and dogmas he drew upon
To flourish as a critic of the age and times.
In the dark and lonely hamlet during the dark night-timeWith the eyes burning and bright,The black cat.Black-black and burning, with the eyes burning-burningAnd black-black the colour,The cat jumping from and vanishing.
Wherever are you, will you be, darling,Forget me, forget me not, my love!My darling, my darling,Forget me, forget me not,Wherever go you, go you far from me,From me, darling!
Of the age?
To be immersed in,Swept intoThe river watersTelling ofWhat it lived it here,What saw I it here.Ashes,Ashes,The bodily ashes,My ashes,Ashes,The remains of the body.
How the scars and healed wounds of it!I have borne many a thing just for humanity sake,I have seen and undergone,I have borne all that silently!If I cannot create, why to destroy,If there are flowers in your garden,Why to desert it?What it passes over my heart, I myself know it,My pains mine,As have felt them…
I do not know itHow to greet her!Thank You, GodFor your gift of her.
