Bitter blue sky with no fleck of cloud!

Ho! brother ox, make the plough speed;

For the dear hearth-mother with care is bowed

As the hungry little ones round her crowd.

'Tis the buniya's belly grows fat and proud

When poor folk are in need.

Sky, dappled grey like a partridge's breast--

Ho! brother ox, drive the plough deep;

For the wind may blow from the north or west,

And the hungry fledglings fall from the nest,

Or the dear hearth-mother fold hands in rest,

Ere harvest's ripe to reap.

Clouds, driving up in the teeth of the wind--

Ho! brother ox, guide the plough straight;

For the dear hearth-mother feeds halt and blind,

While the hungry little ones garlands bind

Round the tree where the Dread One sits enshrined,

On whom we poor folk wait.

Merry drops slanting from south and east--

Ho! brother ox, drive home the wain;

For the dear hearth-mother will spread a feast.

There's none shall be hungry--nor bairn nor beast;

'Tis the buniya's belly that gets the least

When Ram sends poor folk rain.

Sun-flash on the grain

As it leaps from the sower's hand,

Quick with desire to gain

New life from the land.

Seams, furrows, and scars

On the face of our Mother Earth,

For the gods set sorrow and tears

At the gates of birth.

Swift flight of the seed,

Like a bird through the sun-bright air,

To rot in the ground, or breed

In the Dread One's care.

Broken heart of soil,

Taking all to its patient breast,

With never a cease from toil

Or a dream of rest.

Wheat-grains grow to wheat,

And the seed of a tare to tare.

Who knows if Man's soul will meet

Man's body to wear?

Great Ram! grant me life

From the grain of a golden deed;

Sink not my soul in the strife

To wake as a weed.

Seek thy grave, O grain!

Some day I will seek mine too,

To rise from the level plain,

The old in the new.

Scorching sun that shrivels and sears,

Withering wind in the rustling ears,

Rattle of death as the dry stalks fall,

Promise of life in the seed for all.

Flash of the sickles, sweat of the brows,

Rest in the noon, beneath sheltering boughs.

Gather and reap,

Death is but sleep.

Golden grain ripens though lovers are dead;

Lips long for kisses, but mouths must have bread.

Blazing brass of the sky at noon,

Broad, bright face of the harvest moon;

Slow stars wheeling to meet the morn,

Toilers asleep on the sheaves of corn;

Stealthy snake with the lifted crest,

Poisoned prick in a tired breast.

Gather and bind,

Fate is but blind.

Golden grain ripens though dear ones may weep;

Love longs for gladness, but toil must have sleep.

Kine knee-deep in the glistening straw;

Flocks of birds round the threshing-floor;

Clouds of chaff from the winnowing-tray,

Gleaming gold as they drift away;

Wreath of smoke from the funeral pyre,

End of love and its vain desire!

Gather and sheave,

Why should we grieve?

Death finds new life in the Great Mother's breast,

Rest turns to labour, and labour to rest.

In the field how many blossoms showing,

In the field how many maidens rare?

Golden, set with red, the blossoms glowing;

Red veils sewn with gold the maidens wear.

Oh, the merry hours

Midst the maids and flowers!

Tell us, which of these twain is most fair?

CHORUS OF BOYS.

O golden bud!

Spotless without thou art,

Sin--stained within, like blood--

So woman's heart.

CHORUS OF GIRLS.

Not so! No, no!

We will not have it so!

O pale, pure bloom,

Cold to the world thou art;

Yet warm love finds a room

In woman's heart.

In the field the merry leaves are dancing;

In the field small hands which never rest;

Leaves with five points crimson-tinged and glancing,

Fingers henna-tipped and daintiest.

Fate a bright spell weaves

With the hands and leaves.

Tell us, which of these twain is the best?

CHORUS OF BOYS.

Wind-driven leaves,

Busy at its command,

Idle when none perceives--

So woman's hand.

CHORUS OF GIRLS.

Not so! No, no!

We will not have it so!

Pitiful leaves,

Doing, by kindness planned,

Work that no man perceives--

So woman's hand.

In the field, down on the breeze is blowing;

In the fields, the maidens' thoughts rise light;

Down to bear the seed for wider sowing,

Thoughts which fly to dear ones out of sight;

Merrily they've flown,

Thoughts and cotton down.

Tell us, which of these twain does the right?

CHORUS OF BOYS.

Unstable down,

By every idle wind

Hither and thither blown--

So woman's mind.

CHORUS OF GIRLS.

Not so! No, no!

We will not have it so!

Soft, white--winged down,

Eager new work to find,

Hoarding naught for its own--

So woman's mind.

In the field the husk-shells swing and rustle;

In the field the merry tongues wag fast;

Clatter! chatter! Oh, the laughing bustle!

Smiles and jests at all as they come past.

Yonder's a man--

Answer if he can.

"Blows and kisses, tears and smiling;

Women's faith and man's beguiling;

Money spending, money piling:

Tell us, what in life will longest last?"

VOICE OF A MAN.

Ram, give me strength,

Else it will be unsung,

For none can tell the length

Of woman's tongue.

CHORUS OF GIRLS.

Fie, fie! Not so!

We will not have it so!

CHORUS OF MATRONS.

Have patience, lassies--wait a little space;

The bridal lamps will flame, the songs be sung;

Then you can laugh, and teach your own good man

To know the length of his good woman's tongue!