THE BIRD OF the morning sings. Whence has he word of the morning before the morning breaks, and when the dragon night still holds the sky in its cold black coils? Tell me, bird of the morning, how, through the twofold night of the sky and the leaves, he found his way into your dream, the messenger out of the east? The world did not believe you when you cried, 'The sun is on his way, the night is no more.' 0 sleeper, awake! Bare your forehead, waiting for the first blessing of light, and sing with the bird of the morning in glad faith.
(From the Bengali of Satyendranath Datta) MY FLOWERS were like milk and honey and wine; I bound them into a posy with a golden ribbon, but they escaped my watchful care and fled away and only the ribbon remains. My songs were like milk and honey and wine, they were held in the rhythm of my beating heart, but they spread their wings and fled away, the darlings of the idle hours, and my heart beats in silence. The beauty I loved was like milk and honey and wine, her lips like the rose of the dawn, her eyes bee-black. I kept my heart silent lest it should startle her, but she eluded me like my flowers and like my songs, and my love remains alone.
