The Golden Threshold | Page 7

as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a
new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so
bright? . . . Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave
the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the
moonlight chill? . . . White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave

a dead man's funeral shroud.

COROMANDEL FISHERS
Rise, brothers, rise, the wakening skies pray to the morning light, The
wind lies asleep in the arms of the dawn like a child that has cried all
night. Come, let us gather our nets from the shore, and set our
catamarans free, To capture the leaping wealth of the tide, for we are
the sons of the sea.
No longer delay, let us hasten away in the track of the sea-gull's call,
The sea is our mother, the cloud is our brother, the waves are our
comrades all. What though we toss at the fall of the sun where the hand
of the sea-god drives? He who holds the storm by the hair, will hide in
his breast our lives.
Sweet is the shade of the cocoanut glade, and the scent of the mango
grove, And sweet are the sands at the full o' the moon with the sound of
the voices we love. But sweeter, O brothers, the kiss of the spray and
the dance of the wild foam's glee: Row, brothers, row to the blue of the
verge, where the low sky mates with the sea.

THE SNAKE-CHARMER
Whither dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call? In what
moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume, Where the clustering keovas
guard the squirrel's slumber, Where the deep woods glimmer with the
jasmine's bloom?
I'll feed thee, O beloved, on milk and wild red honey, I'll bear thee in a
basket of rushes, green and white, To a palace-bower where
golden-vested maidens Thread with mellow laughter the petals of
delight.
Whither dost thou loiter, by what murmuring hollows, Where oleanders
scatter their ambrosial fire? Come, thou subtle bride of my mellifluous
wooing, Come, thou silver-breasted moonbeam of desire!

CORN-GRINDERS
O LITTLE MOUSE, WHY DOST THOU CRY WHILE MERRY
STARS LAUGH IN THE SKY?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will ease my bitter pain? He went

to seek a millet-grain In the rich farmer's granary shed; They caught
him in a baited snare, And slew my lover unaware: Alas! alas! my lord
is dead.
O LITTLE DEER, WHY DOST THOU MOAN, HID IN THY
FOREST-BOWER ALONE?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went To drink beside the river-head; A waiting
hunter threw his dart, And struck my lover through the heart. Alas! alas!
my lord is dead.
O LITTLE BRIDE, WHY DOST THOU WEEP WITH ALL THE
HAPPY WORLD ASLEEP?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead! Ah, who will stay these hungry tears, Or
still the want of famished years, And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.

VILLAGE-SONG
Honey, child, honey, child, whither are you going? Would you cast
your jewels all to the breezes blowing? Would you leave the mother
who on golden grain has fed you? Would you grieve the lover who is
riding forth to wed you?
Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going, Where upon the champa
boughs the champa buds are blowing; To the koil-haunted river-isles
where lotus lilies glisten, The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O
listen!
Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure, Of
bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal- scented leisure. Your bridal
robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing, Your bridal cakes are
on the hearth: O whither are you going?
The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow, The
laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow. Far sweeter
sound the forest-notes where forest- streams are falling; O mother mine,
I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.

IN PRAISE OF HENNA
A kokila called from a henna-spray: LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE!

Hasten, maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
Send your pitchers afloat on the tide, Gather the leaves ere the dawn be
old, Grind them in mortars of amber and gold, The fresh green leaves
of the henna-tree.
A kokila called from a henna-spray: LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE!
Hasten maidens, hasten away To gather the leaves of the henna-tree.
The tilka's red for the brow of a bride, And betel-nut's red for lips that
are sweet; But, for lily-like fingers