FROM ABOVE
What do I care if the trees are bare
And the hills are dark
And the skies are gray.
What do I care for chill in the air
For crows that cark
At the rough wind's way.
What do I care for the dead leaves there—
Or the sullen road
By the sullen wood.
There's heart in my heart
To bear my load!
So enough, the day is good!
BY THE INDUS
Thou art late, O Moon,
Late,
I have waited thee long.
The nightingale's flown to her nest,
Sated with song.
The champak hath no odour more
To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—
But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love,
Late,
For the moon is a-wane.
The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,
Burns with my pain.
The lotus leans her head on the stream—
Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,
Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death,
Late,
For he did not come!
A pariah is my heart,
Cast from him—dumb!
I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—
Is it not time for the Tomb—and Sleep?
O Death, strike with thy dart!