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Best Famous Palanquin Poems

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

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Written by Rabindranath Tagore | Create an image from this poem

The Hero

 Mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a
strange and dangerous country.
You are riding in a palanquin and I am trotting by you on a
red horse.
It is evening and the sun goes down. The waste of Joradighi
lies wan and grey before us. The land is desolate and barren.
You are frightened and thinking-"I know not where we have come
to."
I say to you, "Mother, do not be afraid."
The meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs
a narrow broken path.
There are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have
gone to their village stalls.
It grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell
where we are going.
Suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "What light is
that near the bank?"
Just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come
running towards us.
You sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the
gods in prayer.
The bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the thorny
bush.
I shout to you, "Don't be afraid, mother. I am here."
With long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their
heads, they come nearer and nearer.
I shout, "Have a care, you villains! One step more and you are
dead men."
They give another terrible yell and rush forward.
You clutch my hand and say, "Dear boy, for heaven's sake, keep
away from them."
I say, "Mother, just you watch me."
Then I spur my horse for a wild gallop, and my sword and
buckler clash against each other.
The fight becomes so fearful, mother, that it would give you
a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin.
Many of them fly, and a great number are cut to pieces.
I know you are thinking, sitting all by yourself, that your
boy must be dead by this time.
But I come to you all stained with blood, and say,"Mother, the
fight is over now."
You come out and kiss me, pressing me to your heart, and you
say to yourself,
"I don't know what I should do if I hadn't my boy to escort
me."
A thousand useless things happen day after day, and why
couldn't such a thing come true by chance?
It would be like a story in a book.
My brother would say, "Is it possible? I always thought he was
so delicate!"
Our village people would all say in amazement, "Was it not
lucky that the boy was with his mother?"


Written by Edna St. Vincent Millay | Create an image from this poem

Travel

 I should like to rise and go 
Where the golden apples grow;-- 
Where below another sky 
Parrot islands anchored lie, 
And, watched by cockatoos and goats, 
Lonely Crusoes building boats;-- 
Where in sunshine reaching out 
Eastern cities, miles about, 
Are with mosque and minaret 
Among sandy gardens set, 
And the rich goods from near and far 
Hang for sale in the bazaar;-- 
Where the Great Wall round China goes, 
And on one side the desert blows, 
And with the voice and bell and drum, 
Cities on the other hum;-- 
Where are forests hot as fire, 
Wide as England, tall as a spire, 
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts 
And the ***** hunters' huts;-- 
Where the knotty crocodile 
Lies and blinks in the Nile, 
And the red flamingo flies 
Hunting fish before his eyes;-- 
Where in jungles near and far, 
Man-devouring tigers are, 
Lying close and giving ear 
Lest the hunt be drawing near, 
Or a comer-by be seen 
Swinging in the palanquin;-- 
Where among the desert sands 
Some deserted city stands, 
All its children, sweep and prince, 
Grown to manhood ages since, 
Not a foot in street or house, 
Not a stir of child or mouse, 
And when kindly falls the night, 
In all the town no spark of light. 
There I'll come when I'm a man 
With a camel caravan; 
Light a fire in the gloom 
Of some dusty dining-room; 
See the pictures on the walls, 
Heroes fights and festivals; 
And in a corner find the toys 
Of the old Egyptian boys.
Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

Palanquin Bearers

 Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways 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, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.
Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

Cornflowers

 ("Tandis que l'étoile inodore.") 
 
 {XXXII.} 


 While bright but scentless azure stars 
 Be-gem the golden corn, 
 And spangle with their skyey tint 
 The furrows not yet shorn; 
 While still the pure white tufts of May 
 Ape each a snowy ball,— 
 Away, ye merry maids, and haste 
 To gather ere they fall! 
 
 Nowhere the sun of Spain outshines 
 Upon a fairer town 
 Than Peñafiel, or endows 
 More richly farming clown; 
 Nowhere a broader square reflects 
 Such brilliant mansions, tall,— 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 Nowhere a statelier abbey rears 
 Dome huger o'er a shrine, 
 Though seek ye from old Rome itself 
 To even Seville fine. 
 Here countless pilgrims come to pray 
 And promenade the Mall,— 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 Where glide the girls more joyfully 
 Than ours who dance at dusk, 
 With roses white upon their brows, 
 With waists that scorn the busk? 
 Mantillas elsewhere hide dull eyes— 
 Compared with these, how small! 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 A blossom in a city lane, 
 Alizia was our pride, 
 And oft the blundering bee, deceived, 
 Came buzzing to her side— 
 But, oh! for one that felt the sting, 
 And found, 'neath honey, gall— 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 Young, haughty, from still hotter lands, 
 A stranger hither came— 
 Was he a Moor or African, 
 Or Murcian known to fame? 
 None knew—least, she—or false or true, 
 The name by which to call. 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 Alizia asked not his degree, 
 She saw him but as Love, 
 And through Xarama's vale they strayed, 
 And tarried in the grove,— 
 Oh! curses on that fatal eve, 
 And on that leafy hall! 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 The darkened city breathed no more; 
 The moon was mantled long, 
 Till towers thrust the cloudy cloak 
 Upon the steeples' throng; 
 The crossway Christ, in ivy draped, 
 Shrank, grieving, 'neath the pall,— 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 But while, alone, they kept the shade, 
 The other dark-eyed dears 
 Were murmuring on the stifling air 
 Their jealous threats and fears; 
 Alizia was so blamed, that time, 
 Unheeded rang the call: 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 Although, above, the hawk describes 
 The circle round the lark, 
 It sleeps, unconscious, and our lass 
 Had eyes but for her spark— 
 A spark?—a sun! 'Twas Juan, King! 
 Who wears our coronal,— 
 Away, ye merry maids, etc. 
 
 A love so far above one's state 
 Ends sadly. Came a black 
 And guarded palanquin to bear 
 The girl that ne'er comes back; 
 By royal writ, some nunnery 
 Still shields her from us all 
 Away, ye merry maids, and haste 
 To gather ere they fall! 
 
 H. L. WILLIAMS 


 





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