" And, all the time, her subtle criticism is alert, and
this woman of the East marvels at the women of the West, "the
beautiful worldly women of the West," whom she sees walking in the
Cascine, "taking the air so consciously attractive in their brilliant
toilettes, in the brilliant coquetry of their manner!
this woman of the East marvels at the women of the West, "the
beautiful worldly women of the West," whom she sees walking in the
Cascine, "taking the air so consciously attractive in their brilliant
toilettes, in the brilliant coquetry of their manner!
Sarojini Naidu - Golden Threshold
Would it not be wonderful?
One black night I stood
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose. " Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day! " And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead? No, for the
gods are immortal, and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole. Have I seen
them? Yes, looking with dreaming eyes, I have found them sitting
under the olives, in their grave, strong, antique beauty--Etruscan
gods! "
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks, and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation, longs for Nirvana;
"then, when one comes out again into the hot sunshine that warms
one's blood, and sees the eager hurrying faces of men and women
in the street, dramatic faces over which the disturbing experiences
of life have passed and left their symbols, one's heart thrills up
into one's throat. No, no, no, a thousand times no! how can one
deliberately renounce this coloured, unquiet, fiery human life of
the earth?
" And, all the time, her subtle criticism is alert, and
this woman of the East marvels at the women of the West, "the
beautiful worldly women of the West," whom she sees walking in the
Cascine, "taking the air so consciously attractive in their brilliant
toilettes, in the brilliant coquetry of their manner! " She finds
them "a little incomprehensible," "profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination," and asks if these "incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices" are, to us,
an essential part of their charm? And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her, petting her as if she were a
nice child, a child or a toy, not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully: "How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to be. "
She sat in our midst, and judged us, and few knew what was
passing behind that face "like an awakening soul," to use one of
her own epithets. Her eyes were like deep pools, and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
WANDERING SINGERS
(Written to one of their Tunes)
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay?
in a garden with fireflies in my hair like darting restless stars
caught in a mesh of darkness. It gave me a strange sensation, as
if I were not human at all, but an elfin spirit. I wonder why
these little things move me so deeply? It is because I have a
most 'unbalanced intellect,' I suppose. " Then, looking out on
Florence, she cries, "God! how beautiful it is, and how glad I am
that I am alive to-day! " And she tells me that she is drinking
in the beauty like wine, "wine, golden and scented, and shining,
fit for the gods; and the gods have drunk it, the dead gods of
Etruria, two thousand years ago. Did I say dead? No, for the
gods are immortal, and one might still find them loitering in
some solitary dell on the grey hillsides of Fiesole. Have I seen
them? Yes, looking with dreaming eyes, I have found them sitting
under the olives, in their grave, strong, antique beauty--Etruscan
gods! "
In Italy she watches the faces of the monks, and at one moment
longs to attain to their peace by renunciation, longs for Nirvana;
"then, when one comes out again into the hot sunshine that warms
one's blood, and sees the eager hurrying faces of men and women
in the street, dramatic faces over which the disturbing experiences
of life have passed and left their symbols, one's heart thrills up
into one's throat. No, no, no, a thousand times no! how can one
deliberately renounce this coloured, unquiet, fiery human life of
the earth?
" And, all the time, her subtle criticism is alert, and
this woman of the East marvels at the women of the West, "the
beautiful worldly women of the West," whom she sees walking in the
Cascine, "taking the air so consciously attractive in their brilliant
toilettes, in the brilliant coquetry of their manner! " She finds
them "a little incomprehensible," "profound artists in all the subtle
intricacies of fascination," and asks if these "incalculable
frivolities and vanities and coquetries and caprices" are, to us,
an essential part of their charm? And she watches them with
amusement as they flutter about her, petting her as if she were a
nice child, a child or a toy, not dreaming that she is saying to
herself sorrowfully: "How utterly empty their lives must be of
all spiritual beauty IF they are nothing more than they appear to be. "
She sat in our midst, and judged us, and few knew what was
passing behind that face "like an awakening soul," to use one of
her own epithets. Her eyes were like deep pools, and you seemed
to fall through them into depths below depths.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
FOLK SONGS
PALANQUIN BEARERS
Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
WANDERING SINGERS
(Written to one of their Tunes)
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
Through echoing forest and echoing street,
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam,
All men are our kindred, the world is our home.
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed,
The laughter and beauty of women long dead;
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings,
And happy and simple and sorrowful things.
What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering footsteps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait:
The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.
INDIAN WEAVERS
Weavers, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay?
