O be my soul a mirror clear,
That I may see Thee there;
Dwell in my thought, my speech, my life,
Making them glad and fair.
Take Thou this body, O my Christ,
Dwell as its soul within;
To be an instant separate
I count a deadly sin.
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
PEACE
It is the hour of sunset, and the sky
Is robed in purple, as a lovely bride
With ruby lips and veil thrown half aside,
Waiting for her sweet lord with longing eye.
The air is fresh and fragrant, and the sea
In smiling joy its boundless bosom heaves,
With ringing music of the rising waves;
And far from here its weary whisper leaves
The broken echo of a world that raves;
Its murmur hushed in new-born notes of glee.
. . . . . .
Lulled by the laughter of the sky and earth,
The heart forgets her sorrow and suspends
Her breath in silent rapture and descends
Upon the soul the vision of its birth.
Immeasurable waters! and the sky
Immeasurable! and this wondrous light
In rainbow smiles of India, all around—
Resting and rocking and rolling in delight,
And swelling with the mirth of many a sound
That fills the ocean’s ears unceasingly.
. . . . . .
And now the mantle of approaching night
Falls gently o’er the drowsy eyes of day;
The roseate glow of evening melts away,
Softly beyond the western waves, to white.
Now o’er the earth a veil of mystery
In silver silence all around is spread;
And not a sound is heard or sight is seen
Except the lingering echoes hither led
Of boatmen’s shouts, and distant lights between
The mingling bosoms of the sky and sea.
. . . . . .
The moon hath risen, and the stars appear,
And heaven is watching with the eyes of light;
And in my heart a newer hope is bright
With varied splendours of the atmosphere.
The mind is hushed and all its motions cease
Of wayward fancy and unquiet thought;
And in the happy island of the soul
Awakes a joy in radiance unforgot—
Which o’er the world’s tumultuous uncontrol
Doth smile, and softly whisper, “Here is Peace!”
Nanikram Vasanmal Thadani.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The new leaves are red, are the rosy kisses. Also, palas and pomegranate both have red blossoms.
[2] This poem deliberately takes off from the loveliest of all Bengali popular songs, Ramprasad’s “This day will surely pass, this day will pass” (see Bengali Religious Lyrics, Thompson and Spencer, Oxford University Press).
[3] India has six seasons to our four.