A poem from World War I, by Indian poet Sarojini Naidu The Gift of India Is there ought you need that my hands withhold, Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold? Lo! I have flung to the East and the West Priceless treasures torn from my breast, And yielded the sons of my stricken womb To the drum-beats of the duty, the sabers of doom. Gathered like pearls in their alien graves Silent they sleep by the Persian waves, Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands, They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands, they are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep Or compass the woe of the watch I keep? Or the pride that thrills thro my hearts despair And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer? And the far sad glorious vision I see Of the torn red banners of victory? When the terror and the tumult of hate shall cease And life be refashioned on anvils of peace, And your love shall offer memorial thanks To the comrades who fought on the dauntless ranks, And you honour the deeds of the dauntless ones, Remember the blood of my martyred sons!
Posted on: Sat, 02 Aug 2014 21:51:40 +0000
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