R.S. is a denizen of India who writes Poetry to find harmony in life. She graduated with Honours in English and loves to read and write poetry. She rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.Bio of the Poet
What care I of the maples or The evergreen cedar, For I know thy heart, which will (as the wind that can never stand still) Wander off to lands afar? For who could bind the ocean wave Amidst that many a fable drown And nature, alas! without a frown, Spectator be of the lovers' grave? Thou may'st keep me in thy heart But will thy remembering me for years, Lighten my heart and purge my tears And make my sorrow thus depart? Doubt I, not your love to be true And live I may when thou art gone But dost thou think a leaf forlorn Weathering the storm could ever renew?
Echoes of Departure
The swallows fly south when harsh winds blow But I stay here, with nowhere to go; Wish I could also wind borne be, Or like driftwood floating towards the sea. The vacant boughs of willows mourn How brief was love your sojourn; The sun leaps and drowns in the west While this sorrow lingers in my chest. Like wisps of smoke, my days dissipate As on winter's harp notes lie in wait For spring to melt the frosted strings So the strains may soar upon love's wings. As the lights flicker in the darkening sky I pine and ponder, heave a sigh, Why is parting long and love so brief, Dwelling forever in skyscrapers of grief?
A Solitary Spring’s Melody
The Tulip tree has grown new leaves, Springtime has kissed its boughs; Snow has forfeited the slumbering lakes As rift in clouds gold ray allows. The moon as a pendant now resplendent, The winds murmur and saunter by; The misty nights hasten and flee As tiny boats on the ocean ply. All of nature sprightly and joyous, Birdsongs reverb of the thrush and lark; Spring has adorned each nook and crevice Except my heart is vacant and stark.
Too Late! (After Richard Harris Barham’s poem)
Too late! though flowerets around me grow, And the wind whistles thru' yew and pine; All the hills are smeared white with snow, But thy hand is not pressed in mine. Too late! The clouds their trumpets blow And the yonder hills turn green; The merry lambs frolic to and fro, But thou art no longer seen. Sky-pressed the fabled north star gleams, While my weary heart doth wait; But from a bough afar the lone Robin screams 'Too late! Too late! Too late!'
This month’s theme is inspired by the yearning to memories, humans and places which we experience emotionally and struggle perhaps expression them.