To the koil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies
glisten,
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me:
O listen!

Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of
pleasure,
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-
scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and
saffron glowing,
Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither
are you going?

The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences
of sorrow,
The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of
death to-morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-
streams are falling;
O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk
are calling.



IN PRAISE OF HENNA

A kokila called from a henna-spray:
LIRA! LIREE! LIRA! LIREE!
Hasten, maidens, hasten away