When count is taken of thy braids,
lacs of fortnights it'll take.
Once begun there is no escape from there.
Lo, the gay love goes out to frolic
When Cloris heard of her Amyntas dying,
She grieved then for her unkind denying:
Oft sighing sore, and with a heart unfeigned,
I die, I die, I die, she thus complained.
Whom, when Amyntas spied,
Then both for joy outcried,
I love, I love sweet Cloris’ eye,
And I Amyntas till I die.
When she says Margarita she means Daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."
He's supposed to know that.
When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
O joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love,--the one
Born for me!
I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,
With the power in his hands
Not o'erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space,
All my own!
It is he--O my love!
So bold!
It is I--all thy love
Foretold!
It is I. O love! what bliss!
The word called 'love' has been reduced to a very low profile,
And it will continue to be so, The bollywood calls it 'pyaar'.
Our cheap novelists have further degenerated it,
With the result
even lovers these days, avoid being called 'lovers',
But look at the fun-
We often have to use this word
And that too, with all earnest sincerity
And then, we are not bothered about
But with its ironical synonym; at peculiar junctures
Looking just like lovers
Frightening with 'pyaar' and
*
What shall I your true love tell,
Earth forsaking maid?
What shall I your true love tell
When life's spectre's laid?
"Tell him that, our side the grave,
Maid may not believe
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!"
What shall I your true love tell
When I come to him?
What shall I your true love tell
Eyes growing dim?
"Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind."
What man dare say that he is quite immune
From charms and spells that ev'ry girl possesses ?
A budding love is like the warmth of June,
That lulls and dulls his senses ere he guesses;
Yet who should seek to fly from such attack?
Though stricken sore, I hold my charmer blameless;
My truant heart I would not summon back,
I leave it in the care of one who's nameless.
He jests at scars who never felt the blow
That comes when love first smites and sends him reeling;
The stinging arrow speeds and brings him low,
Love is like
a pineapple,
sweet and
undefinable.
Love is the scent with the lotus born.
It is the silent choirs of petals
Singing the winter's harmony of uniform beauty.
Love is the song of the soul, singing to God.
It is the balanced rhythmic dance of planets -
sun and moon lit
In the skyey hall festooned with fleecy clouds -
Around the sovereign Silent Will.
It is the thirst of the rose to drink the sunrays
And blush red with life.
‘Tis the promptings of the mother earth
To feed her milk to the tender, thirsty roots,
And to nurse all life.
What is life
if there are no struggle and gain?
What is love
if there are no joy and pain?
Living like dead
lying on the bed
of soil
will spoil
the goal of life, o Man.
Who can
be a Mojnu* if he
doesn't fall in the sea
of pain?
Without suffering, there is no gain.
