Treasure Island

Sarojini Naidu

(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949 / Hyderabad / India)

Indian Weavers


WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.


Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.


Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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  • Monali Khandagle (2/12/2014 8:54:00 PM)

    The simple act of weaving connects our life from birth to death, without clothing, we humans are reduced to the pre-human state. The poetess has expressed this importance of the weaver in our lives quite simply and eloquently. (Report) Reply

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