Narayan Hore

In the mundane darkness of the morn,
The world awakened in its scorn,
Writes the weary pen on pages torn,
Tales of castles and mysteries forlorn.
...

O silent, silent Moon!
Teach me thy silent ways,
O teach me how love love defrays -
Besides thy silver-scented shoon.
...

Here lies One whose name was writ in water-
 
O Delphic streams washing aged tombs by!
A single glance spare when violets cry
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It's been long years at college; I see
Where aspirations higher be,
Here art its own art fine demeans,
Does knowledge at her misuse kneel
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Perhaps this July Moon shall wander no more.
The ever radiant object of this still sky,
Flyeth no more, nor feign sympathy's cry,
But remains present within deep heart's core.
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I have heard, the look of a starlit night
Moved men to raptures; I never had felt
Such aweful serene, until once I met
One brighteous moon, in whose warmness thought
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Satyavan Uprose. On his twirled lips

Rose petals fell. The lap of Savitri
...

Life-sprouter Sun! Thou showered forth thy rays
On this tiny seedling that timid lays,
Beneath the loam clayed soil for umpteen days;
Before thy light like a blessing poured all
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The sun shines high above the vales,
The spring flower seemeth to tell tales,
If winter comes, I'll in your arms rest,
When morning awakens, thy beauty shines best.
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The Sun was Cold.
Between two shafts of clouds
The moisture hung pale and sad; the sound
Of mountain music had swept his sense. Here
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My companion through thick and thin of life!
No balance measures, nor no love exceed
Who uncomplained on my fancy doth feed,
Who confronts the world to save me from strife;
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‘It is impossible to love and be wise.'
Francis Bacon

In the perpetual world of mist and dew
...

From that Grand Vessel hauling souls of Men,
I chanced upon a passing sight - I saw
Through a window the visage of East and West,
That East which first bore life - How shall I draw?
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Yonder plays the summer breeze beneath the bridge,
Swirling and curling among the elm trees,
Motions the river that in frenzies seize,
Whose waters the gentle shore grasses please.
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'With ye, my dear, what tumult dare suppress,
What mountainous valleys journeys disturb?
To what breaking limits the dismal press? '
Loud saith he, as we prepared to curb
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O mistaken bards of the Western Isles!
To think that man lives fragmented is wrong,
The world is no heap of concrete and tiles,
To mislead and prove there exists no song
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The nightjar visiting my chambers said,
'I witnessed a woman and groom married,
An unfettering beauty she doubtless was
Easeless the groom lift her form- carried
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Stand upon the solid mound. You will see
A higher mount - A rising chain of them,
Empty except a few low-lying hills
And a massive lake - that is all there is.
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Here are plantain leaves of my village,
Beneath which playing our childhood had passed;
Sometimes at a distance one chastised sage
Would profoundly for hours there meditate-
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I sit amongst dozens of ancient books,
While Shelley in mystic abodes doth breathe,
Those works of Wordsworth my natural hue shooks
When Haidee in Byron's vigoured laps writhes,
...