Page:The Bengali Book of English Verse.djvu/143

Rh  O, the rush, the rapture of life!—throngs, lights, houses! This is London. I wake as a sentinel from sleep.

Stunned with the fresh thunder, the harsh delightful noises, I move entranced on the thronging pavement. How sweet, To eyes sated with green, the dusty brick-walled street! And the lone spirit, of self so weary, how it rejoices To be lost in others, bathed in the tones of human voices, And feel hurried along the happy tread of feet.

And a sense of vast sympathy my heart almost crazes, The warmth of kindred hearts in thousands beating with mine. Each fresh face, each figure, my spirit drinks like wine, Thousands endlessly passing. Violets, daisies, What is your charm to the passionate charm of faces, This ravishing reality, this earthliness divine?

O murmur of men more sweet than all the wood's caresses. How sweet only to be an unknown leaf that sings In the forest of life! Cease, nature, thy whisperings, Can I talk with leaves, or fall in love with breezes? Beautiful boughs, your shade not a human pang appeases, This is London. I lie, and twine in the roots of things.

 

Baby dear! and shall we sever? All your own Mother is, and yours alone. Father goes, he cares not he! Comes, and now from other shores, Baby dear, your deity Woos he, and adores. Never heed him! he was never Yours!

