(India)

I

Panting , panting, panting,
Oh the terrible heat!
The fields crack
And the ryot's back
Bursts with the cruel beat.
The wells of the land are empty;
Six hundred feet, in vain,
The oxen lower the buckets o'er
And draw them up again.

Panting, panting, panting;
Parched are the earth and sky.
The elephant in the jungle
Sucks root and river dry.
The tiger, in whose throat
The desert seems to burn,
Paces the path,
The pool path —
But only to return.

Oh the terrible heat!
Oh the peacock's cry!
The whine of monkeys in the trees,
The children crawling on their knees.
Oh the terrible heat!
The gods will let us die;
Shiva and Parvati and all
To whom we beat the drum and call
Vouch us no reply.

II

Panting, panting, panting:
The plague is drawing near,
Hot is the sun, hot is the night,
And in the heat is fear.
The plague, of famine mate,
Is fumbling at the latch.
Soon his step —
Death-step! —
Listening we shall catch.

Oh! ... soon his step!
There's heard the funeral chant;
There's smelt the funeral pyre;
The ghat is red with fire.
Oh the terrible heat!
The gods are adamant.
Will the monsoon
Let us swoon
Unto the last heart-beat?

III

Panting, panting, panting
Go up toward the sea
And look again, ye holy men,
To learn if clouds may be.
Go up into your temples
With sacrifice and song.
Call to the gods,
The cruel gods,
Who beat us down with rays like rods:
Say that we wait too long!

Say that the wells are dry,
Say that our flesh is sand,
Say that the mother's milk is pain,
The child beats at her breast in vain,
Say that we curse the land.
Oh the terrible heat!
Say that even the moon
In fiery flight
Scorches the night.
Oh bring us the monsoon!

IV

Panting, panting, panting:
The nautch-girl cannot sing,
But drops her vina in the dust
And sinks, a shrivelled thing.
The fakir has acquired
No merit for six days,
But at the tank,
The shrine's tank,
That never before of vileness stank,
Babbles of water sprays.

V

Oh the terrible heat!
How long must we endure?
The holy men have come again,
The beating drums are fewer.
A cobra in their path
Licked out an angry tongue
Into the air —
Oh with despair
Is even the serpent stung!

VI

Panting, panting, panting;
The night again, and day;
And day again, and night again,
Burning their endless way.
The furnace sun goes down,
The branding stars come out
And sear the eyes
Like fiery flies
Settling upon them — Oh, ye skies,
A drop for us, we pray!

But one — upon the tongue!
To let us know you care.
But one — though it be wrung
Of breath sent up in prayer.
Oh the terrible heat!
Again the beating drums.
What do I hear?
A cry? A cheer?
The priests are chanting? nearer, near?
Is it the monsoon comes?

The priests are chanting! ... Oh,
What word is on their lips!
" The monsoon breaks! the monsoon breaks!"
A darkness sudden grips
My eyes: is it the shroud
Of blindness, or — a cloud?
The monsoon breaks?
The rain awakes?
Out of the darkened sky it shakes? —
Louder they cry, and loud!

Oh loud! until at last
The people hear bedazed;
The sick who drank of burning air,
The weak, the well, the crazed!
The temple's sacred cow
Lows gently at the door;
The fakir makes his vow
And chants his Vedic lore;
But all lift up
Their lips' cup
And drink more of it, more!

And singing fills the air! ...
And soon the Summer's song
Of greenness covers all the earth,
For long the rain is, long!
The rice is flooded far;
While Shiva, Indra, all
The gods, who are the world's laws,
Are lulled to sleep,
In temples deep,
By praises without pause.