THE ISLAND GRAVE

Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moan Of the blue waves that like a shaken robe Two heard together once, one hears alone. Now gliding white and hushed towards our globe Keen January with cold eyes and clear And snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobe Ushers the firstborn of the radiant year. Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould, May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier; Haply his joyless fingers wan and cold Caress the ruined masses of thy hair, Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old. Art thou so desolate in that bitter air That even his breath feels warm upon thy face? Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear, And I will meet thee in that lonely place, Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days And death admit me to the silent ways. Sri Aurobindo Ghose.