All the world’s a stage And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning […]

I went down to the river, I sat down on the bank. I tried to think but couldn’t, so I jumped in and sank. I came up once and hollered! I came up twice and cried! If that water hadn’t a-been so cold, I might’ve sunk and died. But it was Cold in the water!

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; Where knowledge is free; Where the world has not been broken up Into fragments by narrow domestic walls; Where words come out from the depth of truth; Where tireless striving stretches in arms towards perfection; Where the clear stream of reason has not

Freedom from fear is the freedom I claim for you, my motherland! Freedom from the burden of ages, bending your head Breaking your back, blinding your eyes to the beckoning call of the future Freedom from the shackles of slumber wherewith You fasten yourself in night stillness, Mistrusting the star that speaks of truth’s adventurous

I cannot remember my mother Only sometimes in the midst of my play A tune seems to hover over my playthings, The tune of some song that she used to Hum while rocking my cradle. I cannot remember my mother But when in the early autumn morning The smell of shiuli flowers floats in the

I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, A wild dog and lone; I’m a rough dog, Hunting on my own; I’m a bad dog, a mad dog, Teasing silly sheep; I love to sit and bay the moon To keep fat souls from sleep. I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, A sleek

Lightly, 0 lightly we bear her along, She always like a flower in the wind of our song; She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream, She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream. Gaily, 0 gaily we glide and we sing, We bear her along like a pearl

Going by my passport They call me Indian abroad But in my own land I don’t know who I am. In South Africa I’m coloured In the USA I’m minus red To the English I am a wog I still don’t know who I am. If I am to be known by language Or worse

Father studied theology through mail And this was exam time. Mother knitted. I sat quietly with a book Full of pictures. Night fell. My hands grew cold touching the faces Of dead kings and queens. There was a black raincoat In the upstairs bedroom Swaying from the ceiling, But what was it doing there? Mother’s

That night the moon drifted over the pond, Turning the water to milk, and under The boughs of the trees, the blue trees, A young woman walked, and for an instant The future came to her: Rain falling on her husband’s grave, rain falling On the lawns on her children, her own mouth Filling with

The laburnum top is silent, quite still In the afternoon yellow September sunlight, A few leaves yellowing, all its seeds fallen. Till the goldfinch comes, with a twitching chirrup A suddenness, a startlement, at a branch and Then sleek as a lizard, and alert, and abrupt, She enters the thickness, and a machine starts up

Fallen from heaven, lies across The lap of his mother, broken by world. But water will go on. Issuing from heaven In dumbness uttering spirit brightness Through its broken mouth. Scattered in a million pieces and buried Its dry tombs will split, at a sign in the sky. At a rending of veils. It will

Aunt Jennifer’s tigers prance across a screen, Bright topaz denizens of a world of green. They do not fear the men beneath the tree; They pace in sleek chivalric certainty. Aunt Jennifer’s fingers fluttering through her wool Find even the ivory needle hard to pull. The massive weight of Uncle’s wedding band Sits heavily upon

Poor hill farmer astray in the grass: There came a movement and he looked up, but All that he saw was the wind pass. There was a sound of voices on the air, But where, where? It was only the glib stream talking Softly to itself. And once when he was walking Along a lane

The little old house was out with a little new shed In front at the edge of the road where the traffic sped, A roadside stand that too pathetically pled, It would not be fair to say for a dole of bread, But for some of the money, the cash, whose flow supports The flower