Poets of John Company/The Song of Kalindi

WILLIAM WATERFIELD.

1832—1907.

The Song of Kalindi.

The fresh wind blows from northern snows;
The nights are dank with dew;
A mound of fire the Simal glows;
The young rice shoots anew;
In mornings cool from reedy pool
Up springs the whistling crane;
The wild fowl fly through sunset sky;
The sweet juice fills the cane.
Come, Krishna, from the tyrant proud
How long shall virtue flee?
The lightning loves the evening cloud,
And I love thee.

The breeze moves slow with thick perfume
From every mango grove;
From coral tree to parrot bloom
The black bees questing rove;
The koil wakes the early dawn,
He calls the spring all day;
The jasmine smiles by glade and lawn;
The lake with buds is gay.
Come, Krishna! leave Vaikuntha's bower;
Do thou our refuge be;
The koil loves the mango flower.
And I love thee.

Low from the brink the waters shrink;
The deer all sniff for rain:
The panting cattle search for drink
Cracked glebe and dusty plain;

The whirlwind, like a furnace blast,
Sweeps clouds of darkening sand;
The forest flames; the beasts aghast
Plunge huddling from the land.
Come, Krishna! come, beloved one!
Descend and comfort me:
The lotus loves the summer sun,
And I love thee.

With dancing feet glad pea-fowl greet
Bright flash and rumbling cloud;
Down channels steep red torrents sweep;
The frogs give welcome loud;
From branch and spray hang blossoms gay;
The wood has second birth;
No stars in skies, but lantern-flies
Seem stars that float to earth.
Come, Krishna! in our day of gloom
Be thou our Kalpa tree:
The wild bee loves the Padma bloom,
And I love thee.

The skies are bright with cloudless light,
Like silver shells that float;
The stars and moon loom large by night;
The lilies launch their boat;
Fair laughs the plain with ripened grain;
With birds resounds the brake:
Along the sand white egrets stand;
The wild fowl fill the lake.
Come, Krishna! let thy servants soon
Thy perfect beauty see:
The water-lily loves the moon.
And I love thee.

The morning mist lies close and still;
The hoar-frost gems the lea;
The dew falls chill; the wind blows shrill;
The leaves have left the tree;

The crops are gone; the fields are bare;
The deer pass grazing by;
And plaintive through the twilight air
Is heard the curlew's cry.
Come, Krishna! come, my lord, my own!
From prison set me free:
The chakravaki pines alone,
As I for thee.