Vasant Panchami

Go, dragon-fly, fold up your purple wing,
Why will you bring me tidings of the spring?
O lilting koels , hush your rapturous notes,
O dhadikulas , still your passionate throats,
Or seek some further garden for your nest ...
Your songs are poisoned arrows in my breast.

O quench your flame, ye crimson gulmohurs ,
That flaunt your dazzling bloom across my doors,
Furl your white bells, sweet champa buds that call
Wild bees to your ambrosial festival,
And hold your breath, O dear sirisha trees
You slay my heart with bitter memories.

O joyous girls who rise at break of morn
With sandal-soil your threshold to adorn,
Ye brides who streamward bear on jewelled feet
Your gifts of silver lamps and new-blown wheat,
I pray you dim your voices when you sing
Your radiant salutations to the spring.

Hai! what have I to do with nesting birds,
With lotus-honey, corn and ivory curds,
With plantain blossom and pomegranate fruit,
Or rose-wreathed lintels and rose-scented lute,
With lighted shrines and fragrant altar fires,
Where happy women breathe their hearts' desires?

For my sad life is doomed to be, alas,
Ruined and sere like sorrow-trodden grass,
My heart hath grown, plucked by the wind of grief,
Akin to fallen flower and faded leaf,
Akin to every lone and withered thing
That hath foregone the kisses of the spring.
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