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Best Famous Sarojini Naidu Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sarojini Naidu poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sarojini Naidu poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sarojini Naidu poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Sarojini Naidu poems.

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Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

To My Children

 Jaya Surya

GOLDEN sun of victory, born 
In my life's unclouded morn, 
In my lambent sky of love, 
May your growing glory prove 
Sacred to your consecration, 
To my heart and to my nation.
Sun of victory, may you be Sun of song and liberty.
Padmaja Lotus-maiden, you who claim All the sweetness of your name, Lakshmi, fortune's queen, defend you, Lotus-born like you, and send you Balmy moons of love to bless you, Gentle joy-winds to caress you.
Lotus-maiden, may you be Fragrant of all ecstasy.
Ranadheera Little lord of battle, hail In your newly-tempered mail! Learn to conquer, learn to fight In the foremost flanks of right, Like Valmiki's heroes bold, Rubies girt in epic gold.
Lord of battle, may you be, Lord of love and chivalry.
Lilamani Limpid jewel of delight Severed from the tender night Of your sheltering mother-mine, Leap and sparkle, dance and shine, Blithely and securely set In love's magic coronet.
Living jewel, may you be Laughter-bound and sorrow-free.
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Life

 CHILDREN, ye have not lived, to you it seems 
Life is a lovely stalactite of dreams, 
Or carnival of careless joys that leap 
About your hearts like billows on the deep 
In flames of amber and of amethyst.
Children, ye have not lived, ye but exist Till some resistless hour shall rise and move Your hearts to wake and hunger after love, And thirst with passionate longing for the things That burn your brows with blood-red sufferings.
Till ye have battled with great grief and fears, And borne the conflict of dream-shattering years, Wounded with fierce desire and worn with strife, Children, ye have not lived: for this is life.
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Past and Future

 The new hath come and now the old retires: 
And so the past becomes a mountain-cell, 
Where lone, apart, old hermit-memories dwell 
In consecrated calm, forgotten yet 
Of the keen heart that hastens to forget 
Old longings in fulfilling new desires.
And now the Soul stands in a vague, intense Expectancy and anguish of suspense, On the dim chamber-threshold .
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lo! he sees Like a strange, fated bride as yet unknown, His timid future shrinking there alone, Beneath her marriage-veil of mysteries.
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An Indian Love Song

 He

Lift up the veils that darken the delicate moon 
of thy glory and grace,
Withhold not, O love, from the night 
of my longing the joy of thy luminous face,
Give me a spear of the scented keora 
guarding thy pinioned curls, 
Or a silken thread from the fringes 
that trouble the dream of thy glimmering pearls;
Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume 
and the song of thy anklets' caprice,
Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar 
that dwells in the flower of thy kiss.
She How shall I yield to the voice of thy pleading, how shall I grant thy prayer, Or give thee a rose-red silken tassel, a scented leaf from my hair? Or fling in the flame of thy heart's desire the veils that cover my face, Profane the law of my father's creed for a foe of my father's race? Thy kinsmen have broken our sacred altars and slaughtered our sacred kine, The feud of old faiths and the blood of old battles sever thy people and mine.
He What are the sins of my race, Beloved, what are my people to thee? And what are thy shrines, and kine and kindred, what are thy gods to me? Love recks not of feuds and bitter follies, of stranger, comrade or kin, Alike in his ear sound the temple bells and the cry of the muezzin.
For Love shall cancel the ancient wrong and conquer the ancient rage, Redeem with his tears the memoried sorrow that sullied a bygone age.
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Harvest Hymn

 Mens Voices:

LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest, 
Bright and munificent lord of the morn! 
Thine is the bounty that prospered our sowing, 
Thine is the bounty that nurtured our corn.
We bring thee our songs and our garlands for tribute, The gold of our fields and the gold of our fruit; O giver of mellowing radiance, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Surya, with cymbal and flute.
Lord of the rainbow, lord of the harvest, Great and beneficent lord of the main! Thine is the mercy that cherished our furrows, Thine is the mercy that fostered our grain.
We bring thee our thanks and our garlands for tribute, The wealth of our valleys, new-garnered and ripe; O sender of rain and the dewfall, we hail thee, We praise thee, Varuna, with cymbal and pipe.
Womens Voices: Queen of the gourd-flower, queen of the har- vest, Sweet and omnipotent mother, O Earth! Thine is the plentiful bosom that feeds us, Thine is the womb where our riches have birth.
We bring thee our love and our garlands for tribute, With gifts of thy opulent giving we come; O source of our manifold gladness, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Prithvi, with cymbal and drum.
All Voices: Lord of the Universe, Lord of our being, Father eternal, ineffable Om! Thou art the Seed and the Scythe of our harvests, Thou art our Hands and our Heart and our Home.
We bring thee our lives and our labours for tribute, Grant us thy succour, thy counsel, thy care.
O Life of all life and all blessing, we hail thee, We praise thee, O Bramha, with cymbal and prayer
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Indian Weavers

 WEAVERS, weaving at break of day, 
Why do you weave a garment so gay? .
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Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so bright? .
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Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the moonlight chill? .
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White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
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Autumn Song

 Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
 The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
 The wild wind blows in a cloud.
Hark to a voice that is calling To my heart in the voice of the wind: My heart is weary and sad and alone, For its dreams like the fluttering leaves have gone, And why should I stay behind?
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To India

 O YOUNG through all thy immemorial years! 
Rise, Mother, rise, regenerate from thy gloom, 
And, like a bride high-mated with the spheres, 
Beget new glories from thine ageless womb!


The nations that in fettered darkness weep 
Crave thee to lead them where great mornings break .
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Mother, O Mother, wherefore dost thou sleep? Arise and answer for thy children's sake! Thy Future calls thee with a manifold sound To crescent honours, splendours, victories vast; Waken, O slumbering Mother and be crowned, Who once wert empress of the sovereign Past.
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To The God of Pain

 UNWILLING priestess in thy cruel fane, 
Long hast thou held me, pitiless god of Pain, 
Bound to thy worship by reluctant vows, 
My tired breast girt with suffering, and my brows 
Anointed with perpetual weariness.
Long have I borne thy service, through the stress Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights, Performing thine inexorable rites.
For thy dark altars, balm nor milk nor rice, But mine own soul thou'st ta'en for sacrifice: All the rich honey of my youth's desire, And all the sweet oils from my crushed life drawn, And all my flower-like dreams and gem-like fire Of hopes up-leaping like the light of dawn.
I have no more to give, all that was mine Is laid, a wrested tribute, at thy shrine; Let me depart, for my whole soul is wrung, And all my cheerless orisons are sung; Let me depart, with faint limbs let me creep To some dim shade and sink me down to sleep.
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Ecstasy

 Cover mine eyes, O my Love! 
Mine eyes that are weary of bliss 
As of light that is poignant and strong 
O silence my lips with a kiss, 
My lips that are weary of song! 
Shelter my soul, O my love! 
My soul is bent low with the pain 
And the burden of love, like the grace 
Of a flower that is smitten with rain: 
O shelter my soul from thy face!
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Street Cries

 WHEN dawn's first cymbals beat upon the sky, 
Rousing the world to labour's various cry, 
To tend the flock, to bind the mellowing grain, 
From ardent toil to forge a little gain, 
And fasting men go forth on hurrying feet, 
Buy bread, buy bread, rings down the eager street.
When the earth falters and the waters swoon With the implacable radiance of noon, And in dim shelters koïls hush their notes, And the faint, thirsting blood in languid throats Craves liquid succour from the cruel heat, Buy fruit, buy fruit, steals down the panting street.
When twilight twinkling o'er the gay bazaars, Unfurls a sudden canopy of stars, When lutes are strung and fragrant torches lit On white roof-terraces where lovers sit Drinking together of life's poignant sweet, Buy flowers, buy flowers, floats down the singing street.
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My Dead Dream

 HAVE YOU found me, at last, O my Dream? Seven eons ago 
You died and I buried you deep under forests of snow.
Why have you come hither? Who bade you awake from your sleep And track me beyond the cerulean foam of the deep? Would you tear from my lintels these sacred green garlands of leaves? Would you scare the white, nested, wild pigeons of joy from my eaves? Would you touch and defile with dead fingers the robes of my priest? Would you weave your dim moan with the chantings of love at my feast? Go back to your grave, O my Dream, under forests of snow, Where a heart-riven child hid you once, seven eons ago.
Who bade you arise from your darkness? I bid you depart! Profane not the shrines I have raised in the clefts of my heart.
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In The Forest

 HERE, O my heart, let us burn the dear dreams that are dead, 
Here in this wood let us fashion a funeral pyre 
Of fallen white petals and leaves that are mellow and red, 
Here let us burn them in noon's flaming torches of fire.
We are weary, my heart, we are weary, so long we have borne The heavy loved burden of dreams that are dead, let us rest, Let us scatter their ashes away, for a while let us mourn; We will rest, O my heart, till the shadows are gray in the west.
But soon we must rise, O my heart, we must wander again Into the war of the world and the strife of the throng; Let us rise, O my heart, let us gather the dreams that remain, We will conquer the sorrow of life with the sorrow of song.
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Song Of A Dream

 ONCE in the dream of a night I stood 
Lone in the light of a magical wood, 
Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang; 
And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang, 
And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed, 
And spirits of Peace were the streams that flowed 
In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
Lone in the light of that magical grove, I felt the stars of the spirits of Love Gather and gleam round my delicate youth, And I heard the song of the spirits of Truth; To quench my longing I bent me low By the streams of the spirits of Peace that flow In that magical wood in the land of sleep.
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Village Song

 HONEY, child, honey, child, whither are you going? 
Would you cast your jewels all to the breezes blowing? 
Would you leave the mother who on golden grain has fed you? 
Would you grieve the lover who is riding forth to wed you?


Mother mine, to the wild forest I am going, 
Where upon the champa boughs the champa buds are blowing; 
To the köil-haunted river-isles where lotus lilies glisten, 
The voices of the fairy folk are calling me: O listen!


Honey, child, honey, child, the world is full of pleasure, 
Of bridal-songs and cradle-songs and sandal-scented leisure.
Your bridal robes are in the loom, silver and saffron glowing, Your bridal cakes are on the hearth: O whither are you going? The bridal-songs and cradle-songs have cadences of sorrow, The laughter of the sun to-day, the wind of death to-morrow.
Far sweeter sound the forest-notes where forest-streams are falling; O mother mine, I cannot stay, the fairy-folk are calling.