By GOPAL
N. NILAVER
The
wealth of Vaisakh is emptied over the land in pearls;
The Mynah
has taught herself another song.
The
throats of men are cool after long, hot argument
For the
answer has come.
Rain!
More rain! The bare paddy fields swim in water,
And the
cricket chirps its wisdom from the damp roof-tree;
The
buffalo gazes from his water-pool;
The Gul
Mohur is in brilliant flower.
The wind
shakes the tassell’d rain from bended trees,
A veil
has gone from the pervading green.
The
prophets of rain lift weather-wise eyes, or
Lean
eager ears to the rain-bird’s chanting note.
The
country around is as cool as a song,
And the
hearts of men are in high-feather.
Ploughs
are taken from their places, oxen are unloosen’d,
For the
farmer must score his first furrow of the season.