The Lost Singer
Like sapphires turned to flowers The morning glory glows Where sunset gives to towers The beauty of the rose, And peepul trees rise solemn Towards the Indian skies, And, column upon column, A fallen empire lies.
There where the weeds are rippling When little breezes chill, The ghost of Rudyard Kipling Goes singing softly still.
Though faint as flutes when gloaming Has hallowed earth and sky And villagers are homing And parrots hurry by, Yet where imagination And dreams are listening, The singer of a nation Sings as he used to sing.
When Indian dawns are gilding The hills, and peacocks call, He sings of empires building And prophesies their fall.
He sings of many labours Of men the whole world through, For all men were his neighbours And all men's work he knew.
He sings dead soldiers' stories Of forts forsaken long, And England's greatest glories Are 'ringing in his song. DUNSANY.
Previous page
