Written by
George Meredith |
I am to follow her.
There is much grace
In woman when thus bent on martyrdom.
They think that dignity of soul may come,
Perchance, with dignity of body.
Base!
But I was taken by that air of cold
And statuesque sedateness, when she said
'I'm going'; lit a taper, bowed her head,
And went, as with the stride of Pallas bold.
Fleshly indifference horrible! The hands
Of Time now signal: O, she's safe from me!
Within those secret walls what do I see
Where first she set the taper down she stands:
Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death,
Like a stirred pool in sunshine break.
Her wrists
I catch: she faltering, as she half resists,
'You love.
.
.
? love.
.
.
? love.
.
.
?' all on an in-drawn breath.
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Written by
Thomas Hardy |
I
There dwells a mighty pair -
Slow, statuesque, intense -
Amid the vague Immense:
None can their chronicle declare,
Nor why they be, nor whence.
,h II
Mother of all things made,
Matchless in artistry,
Unlit with sight is she.
-
And though her ever well-obeyed
Vacant of feeling he.
III
The Matron mildly asks -
A throb in every word -
"Our clay-made creatures, lord,
How fare they in their mortal tasks
Upon Earth's bounded bord?
IV
"The fate of those I bear,
Dear lord, pray turn and view,
And notify me true;
Shapings that eyelessly I dare
Maybe I would undo.
V
"Sometimes from lairs of life
Methinks I catch a groan,
Or multitudinous moan,
As though I had schemed a world of strife,
Working by touch alone.
"
VI
"World-weaver!" he replies,
"I scan all thy domain;
But since nor joy nor pain
Doth my clear substance recognize,
I read thy realms in vain.
VII
"World-weaver! what IS Grief?
And what are Right, and Wrong,
And Feeling, that belong
To creatures all who owe thee fief?
What worse is Weak than Strong?" .
.
.
VIII
--Unlightened, curious, meek,
She broods in sad surmise .
.
.
--Some say they have heard her sighs
On Alpine height or Polar peak
When the night tempests rise.
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Written by
Majeed Amjad |
Where is she … ?!
That girl who stood on these ramparts years ago
Statuesque … iconic …besieged by the world
A deity … worshiped by the early glow of my dreams !
Where is she now ?
That crazy-headed rebellious Truth
With the restless, quivering eye lashes
Who came to refute the sham of this world.
Under these ramparts,
My breath is still patched and mended
By the soft breeze of her existence
Which once did battle against eternal stony walls
But I wonder where she rests now
That crazy-headed rebellious Truth ?
This is how young, unfolding lives
With their tinkling laughter
Are lost forever in a dark enduring slumber
What manner of sleep is this
Whose sea-waves slowly crumble and erode
All islands of the heart ?
What kind of dreams are these
That swim within this sleep
Floating back … returning again and again… forever in this deep slumber ?
Dreams .
.
.
whose childhood glow never fades away !!
(Translated by Talat Afroze from the original Urdu text of the poem: Moortee);
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