“The dew is falling everywhere,
And wet is every rose.
The gentle breath of heaven blows.”
It blows the perfume of the Beauty that is Worship into the heart of this devout enthusiast. His mind is a casket that holds the most precious gems of the Sikh religion and ideals, and gives them forth to an unenlightened world. Nanak, Gobind, Teg Bahadur, the names of the Ten Masters (whose lives he has written) sound in his ears day and night.
The loneliness of exile rings through the quivering poems of Manmohan Ghose.
“Lost is that country, and all but forgotten
’Mid these chill breezes ...”
All true poets love trees; Manmohan Ghose is no exception:
“Willow sweet, willow sad, willow by the river,
Taught by pensive love to droop, where ceaseless waters shiver.”
Mrs. Pankajini Basu is represented by one poem, “Basanta Panchami,” a description of the famous Spring Festival. One line, in particular, stands out: “Ever sorrowful, ever ill-starred, are we women of Bengal, all of us,” and, one might add, ever devout, ever faithful. The eternal question of Indian womanhood cannot be dismissed with a shrug of the shoulders. Mrs. Naidu’s lines:
“What further need hath she of loveliness
Whom Death hath parted from her lord’s caress?”
seem to strike at the heart of the matter. Time alone will solve a problem which at the moment is very vexed indeed. It would seem almost that in their poems these Indian women express all the fullness of their hearts in love-songs, hymns of conjugal devotion, lamentations, praise of physical beauty, and tributes of faith. Emotional outlets of warm, loyal natures, yet always with the underlying sadness that is the birthright of Hind, like an anthem at evening or the eyes of a convent sister. Melancholy glides like pearly vapour through “The Island Grave” of Sri Aurobindo Ghose:
“And I will meet thee in that lonely place,
Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days
And death admit me to the silent ways.”