BY KAMALA
S. DONGERKERY
When the
cold-grey veil is gently drawn
Over the
gold-rayed twilight,
Hearest
the orchestral symphony
Heralding
the newborn night?
Hark! the
rhythm of the cow’s hoofs,
Bells and
homing lows,
Tremulous
murmurs of spurting milk
Within
the twilight’s rose.
Hark! The
lullaby the mother sings
Of the
flute the Player plays;
His
dark-blue form, his myriad loves,
And all
his frolic ways
The
mother dreams of this child and his reed
And the
universal call
She
gropes across the twinkling light
To clasp
his Vision’s doll
She
dreams of his prattle, wisdom-shot,
While the
stars nod and whisper!
Sick with
expectancy for the moon to make
The
night-queen’s perfume crisper.
The moon
streams into the cradle-couch;
A shining
vision she sees…
Nay! not
a vision, but living love
Wrapped
in infinite peace.