The Golden Threshold | Page 7

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 and feet, The red, the red of the henna-tree.

HARVEST HYMN
Men's Voices
Lord of the lotus, lord of the harvest, Bright and munificent lord of the morn! Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing, Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn. We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute, The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit; O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.
Lord of the rainbow, lord of the harvest, Great and beneficent lord of the main! Thine is the mercy that cherished our furrows, Thine is the mercy that fostered our grain. We bring thee our thanks and our garlands for tribute, The wealth of our valleys, new-garnered and ripe; O