How long a seed must rot to grow.
Dead men alone bear frost and rain
On throbless heart and heatless brain,
And feel no stir of joy or pain.
Dead men alone are satiate;
They sleep and dream and have no weight,
To curb their rest, of love or hate.
Strange, men should flee their company,
Or think me strange who long to be
Wrapped in their cool immunity.
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The many sow, but only the chosen reap;
That with the cool oblivion of sleepA dawnless Night may soothe the smart of grief.If from the soil our sweat enriches sproutOne meagre blossom for our hands to cull,Accustomed indigence provokes a shoutOf praise that life becomes so bountiful.Now ushered regally into your own,Look where you will, as far as eye can see,Your little seeds…
Wherein are words sublime or noble? What
Makes it the sesame for all doors shut,Yet in its like sees but impertinence?Is it the hue? Is it the cast of eye,The curve of lip or Asiatic breath,Which mark a lesser place for Gandhi’s cryThan “Give me liberty or give me death!”Is Indian speech so quaint, so weak, so rude,So like its land enslaved,…
I have a rendezvous with Life,
Ere youth has sped, and strength of mind,Ere voices sweet grow dumb.I have a rendezvous with Life,When Spring’s first heralds hum.Sure some would cry it’s better farTo crown their days with sleepThan face the road, the wind and rain,To heed the calling deep.Though wet nor blow nor space I fear,Yet fear I deeply, too,Lest Death…
That bright chimeric beast
Save in the poet’s breast,The white-flanked unicorn,Never may be shakenFrom his solitude;Never may be takenIn any earthly wood.That bird forever feathered,Of its new self the sire,After aeons weathered,Reincarnate by fire,Falcon may not nor eagleSwerve from his eyrie,Nor any crumb inveigleDown to an earthly tree.That fish of the dread regimeInvented to becomeThe fable and the dreamOf…
I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,
Where long will cling the lips of the moth,I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth;I hide no hate; I am not even wrothWho found the earth’s breath so keen and cold;I have wrapped my dreams in a silken cloth,And laid them away in a box of gold.
This is not water running here,
That hurtle flesh and bone past fearDown alleyways of dreamsThis is a wine that must flow onNot caring how or whereSo it has ways to flow uponWhere song is in the air.So it can woo an artful fluteWith loose elastic lipsIts measurements of joy computeWith blithe, ecstatic hips.