Short Poems

She was the brightest thing beneath the sun—
Joy had of her his will—
And, now her singing life is spent and done,
The world seems strange and chill.

A fair young lady was in deep distress.
I sought the cause. Said she, while tears did roll,
“I cannot go to church: shall lose my soul:
For see! my prayer-book doesn't match my dress!”

Sunset Blue peaks vanish in dusk.
Under the Winter stars
My lonely cabin is covered with snow.

I can hear the dogs barking
At the rustic gate
Through snow and wind
Someone is coming home

Nicht wahr, du bist ein großes Tier?
So sprich, was ist zum Dichten nütze?
Eine Perryfeder, ein Bogen Papier,
ein Tintfaß—und ein Schädel voll Grütze!

The life is lost without meditation upon Hari.
In speaking ill of others our tongue took pleasure, and thus we have destroyed our deeds.

We anointed our bodies with oil: we washed and cleansed our garments carefully.
Our foreheads we adorned with the tilak and went to the forest like a great master: but worldly desires did not leave us.

The whole world trembled before mighty Death: Brahma and all the Munis wept.
What then the state of poor Sur Das, who eats and drinks and sleeps his days away?

As men whose bones are wind-blown dust, have sung,
Let me sing now!
I'll sing of gourds, and goads, of honey, and the plough.
I am a raw uneasy parvenu,
I am uncertain of my time.
How can I pour the liquor of new days
In the old pipes of Rhyme?

She who worked patiently,
her children grown,
lies in her grave patiently.

Chap at the door,
Keek in,
Lift the sneck,

What Power is there in the conquering Eyes,
When such a person is theire Sacrifice?
It is their Fate that hee who could subdue
An Armed Host should conquered be by you.
He slights the Triumphs worne upon his brow,
And thankes the Foole that cals him Coward Now.

I SHALL be shapen
Out of the dust of your heart
At the Last Day.
The resurrection will be
Finding myself yours again.