Elegy On The Death Of Two Flowers Poem by Narayan Hore

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.
The Cuckoo sings joyous from branches in glee,
Singing as if to lure its lovely mate,
Cast just one glance at the nectarine bee,
All honey'd as it glides past the juiced date!
Oh forlorn hill! Dost thou find it so fair?
Perpetually distanced from homely joys,
Thou, with all thy pain, have not shed a tear
Come and bathe fearless; Like home-fled boys.
Colours have coloured bright the sullen sky,
Reflects the rainbow which far, far was born,
As victory garland on a newl'-wed fly,
Let never this morning's curtain be drawn.
Gladdened and glistened too the beaten track,
When unfolds upon it the ripened fruit,
Multiplied are feelings when autumns back,
These sights have pleased even the cruellest brute.
Dissipated to the last strand of shrub,
Is nature's art that may, or might not return,
Drink deep; Lest dissolve or someone curb,
Such passions, and thus in jealousy burn.
Who has not witness'd calm eglantines jest?
With tiny pollens that plunge in the air,
Or pastoral sounds on horizon fest,
Amidst life's solitary, marvellous fair?
Again and again plaintive numbers sing,
A hymn whose rhythm caresses the Earth,
While objects of vision do solace bring,
The objects beyond leisure in its mirth.

But beside that lake a dozen Chrysanths,
Circling a tiny patch of land they lay,
Melancholy dripping, where Amaranths,
Wept in silence adjacent the bay.
'Oh! What ails thee, the mild-minded beings? '
Asked the poppy from her harvested fields,
'Ask not our ailment, hear! The mynah sings!
Disdain or forbid not our mournful yields.
Here where we worship lived a couple once
Who loved each other since love be traced,
Until they were stamped upon by a dunce,
And lost forever; Wherever misplaced
Let God unite them, for we cannot scold,
We cannot scold someone we cannot love,
Those who destroy Paradise are not bold,
But villainous cowards who stab the Dove.
We know not a bard who agrees to write
Their story in verse lest someone forget,
How embrace, manifest (they) colours bright,
Or distant clouded clouds farewell dictate?
When the Sunflower popped; Strained out its head,
Or yellowed corn admir'd the autumn Sun,
He gazed and then her slender features read,
And tie her petals into a pretty bun.
'If thou art the present, then life's a gift,
Whence Winter's crumbling journey us resist,
Pity it- for none has powers to drift -
This is where our sacred souls had kissed.
White, like Heaven's angels, dressed in God's bright,
Life's all colours, but ours shall merge in white.
Our love's the beacon for travellers lost at sea,
Our love's the stair that withdrew from defeat,
And mounted the Highest where Highest be,
Never sounded the clarion for retreat.'
Gloss'd when the morn sky, dull when the day's noon,
Gloom'd are the vales when shyeth back Moon's rays,
When distanced in pleasure from reins of the shoon,
They stretch their glory upto Heaven's gateways.'

'Nay we know none! Yet God's no untrue friend,
He remembers the purest of bravest breeds,
Martyrs, who asked for none; Nor bore a fiend,
They enlighten the world, they inspire creeds.'