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To
the Cuckoo
Sounds
of the wakening world, the year’s increase,
Passage
of wind and all his dewy powers
With
breath and laughter of new-bathed flowers
And
that
deep light
of heaven above the trees
Awake
mid leaves that muse in golden peace
Sweet
noise of
birds, but most in heavenly showers
The
cuckoo’s voice
pervades the lucid hours,
Is
priest
and summoner
of these melodies.
The
spent and weary
streams refresh their youth
At
that creative rain
and barren groves
Regain
their
face of flowers; in thee the ruth
Of
Nature wakening
her dead children moves.
But
chiefly to
renew thou hast the art
Fresh
childhood in the obscured human heart.
(My
grandfather, Rajnarayan Bose, died September 1899)
Not
in annihilation lost, nor given
To
darkness art
thou fled from us and light,
O
strong and sentient
spirit; no mere heaven
Of
ancient joys,
no silence eremite
Received
thee; but the omnipresent Thought
Of
which thou wast a part and earthly hour,
Took
back its
gift. Into that splendour caught
Thou
hast
not lost thy special brightness. Power
Remains
with thee and the old genial force
Unseen
for blinding
light, not darkly lurks:
As
when a sacred
river in its course
Dives
into ocean, there its strength abides
Not
less because with vastness wed and works
Unnoticed
in
the grandeur of the tides.
Page-123
What
is this talk
What
is this talk of slayer and of slain?
Swords
are not sharp to slay nor floods assuage
This
flaming soul. Mortality and pain
Are
mere conventions of a mightier stage.
As
when a hero by his doom pursued
Falls
like a pillar of the world uptorn,
Shaking
the hearts of men, and awe-imbued
Silent
the audience sits of joy forlorn,
Meanwhile
behind the stage the actor sighs
Deep-lunged
relief, puts by what he has been
And
talks with friends that waited, or from the flies
Watches
the quiet of the closing scene,
Even
so the unwounded spirits of slayer and slain
Beyond
our vision passing live again.
To
weep because a glorious sun
To
weep because a glorious sun has set
Which
the next morn shall gild the east again;
To
mourn that mighty strengths must yield to fate
Which
by that force a double strength attain;
To
shrink from pain without whose friendly strife
Joy
could not be, to make a terror of death
Who
smiling beckons us to farther life,
And
is a bridge for the persistent breath;
Despair
and anguish and the tragic grief
Of
dry set eyes, or such disastrous tears
As
rend the heart, though meant for its relief,
And
all man’s ghastly company of fears
Are
born of folly that believes the span
Of
life the limit of immortal man.
Page-124
I
have a
hundred
lives
I
have a hundred lives before me yet
To
grasp thee in, O Spirit ethereal,
Be
sure I will with heart insatiate
Pursue
thee like a hunter through them all.
Thou
yet shalt turn back on the eternal way
And
with awakened vision watch me come
Smiling
a little at errors past and lay
Thy
eager hand in mine, its proper home.
Meanwhile
made happy by thy happiness
I
shall approach thee in things and people dear,
And
in thy spirit's motions half-possess,
Loving
what thou hast loved, shall feel thee near,
Until
I lay my hands on thee indeed
Somewhere
among the stars, as ’twas decreed.
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