Dim dusk behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron yellow—
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born.
Oh, the white on the highway! Oh, the stenches in the byway!
Oh, the clammy fog that hovers over earth!
And at home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?
Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,