The Silken Tassel/Sita-Rama

​
Sita-Rama
While the infant hours of morning
Glide so playful by the door,
And the village-women hasten
To the Ganga’s holy shore;
While the maidens gather flowers
Under fragrant jasmine-bowers
For the temple-god and go;
Suddenly a voice there towers
Over all below:
  Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
  Sita-Rama, Ho!

Like the flying pansies, wheeling
Flutter while the butterflies,
And the busy moments gather
All the fruits of toiling skies;
While the full-blown flowers are gleaming
In the noontide’s golden dreaming
Of the hopes that ever grow;
Hark! the words there loud and streaming
In the long street flow:
  Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
  Sita-Rama, Ho!

​
While the temple bells are ringing
At the slow-departing day,
And the closing lips o’ the lotus
Kiss the last and lingering ray;
While the village-wives are burning
Purest incense with a yearning
For their joy and peace below;
Oh! the echoes there returning
With the breezes blow:
  Sita-Rama, Sita-Rama,
  Sita-Rama, Ho!

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.