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 THE serpents are asleep among the poppies, 
The fireflies light the soundless panther's way 
To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying, 
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
O soft! the lotus-buds upon the stream Are stirring like sweet maidens when they dream.
A caste-mark on the azure brows of Heaven, The golden moon burns sacred, solemn, bright The winds are dancing in the forest-temple, And swooning at the holy feet of Night.
Hush! in the silence mystic voices sing And make the gods their incense-offering.

by Sarojini Naidu
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