The Morning Star paled slowly, the Cross hung low to the sea,
And down the shadowy reaches the tide came swirling free,
This piece of hardwood, cunningly shaped,
was curved so evenly while piccaninnies gaped
The Moon Dies, The Sun Dies
The Earth and Sky Die Too |
by Kabir
35 lines, 1 comment
The faithful helm commands the keel,
From port to port fair breezes blow;
It is not that my heart grieves
For these burnt-out Autumn leaves,
He prisons many a life indeed
Within the narrow cells of seed,
Saw ye first, arrayed in mist and cloud; No cheerful lights softened your aspect bold;
Out of the starless night that covers me,
(O tribulation of the wind that rolls!)
At the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
As a fond mother, when the day is o'er,
Leads by the hand her little child to bed,
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
Having seen them long,
I hold the flowers so dear
Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest,
And, behold, for repayment,
The lilacs in the sunshine lift
Their plumes of dear old-fashioned flowers
The vital vapors to absorb,
The moon, with famished gaze,
Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
A fragment moon hangs from the bare tung tree
The water clock runs out, all is still
WITHIN the world a second world
That circles ceaselessly:
The azure blue, the heavenly hue,
The first created realm of blue;
Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew
Has chilled the robe she will not change —
HE autumn comes, a maiden fair
In slenderness and grace,
THE spring will come again, dear friends,
The swallow o’er the sea;
The city's heat is like a leaden pall—
Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air
Aloof within the day's enormous dome,
He holds unshared the silence of the sky.
Last night was thick with wind, a time of countless stars.
All night long, a vast wind played within my mosquito net.
Gentle Spring! in sunshine clad, Well dost thou thy power display!
Along the line of smoky hills
The crimson forest stands,
The cock, warm roosting 'midst his feather'd dames,
Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morning air,
It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again,
It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old.
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