| |
| DIM dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow— | |
| As the women in the village grind the corn, | |
| And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow | |
| That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born. | |
| Oh the white dust on the highway! | 5 |
| Oh the stenches in the byway! | |
| Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth! | |
| And at Home they ’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry— | |
| What part have India’s exiles in their mirth? | |
| |
| Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring— | 10 |
| As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, | |
| And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, | |
| To the ghât below the curling wreaths of smoke. | |
| Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly— | |
| Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice! | 15 |
| With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, | |
| And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!” | |
| |
| High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us— | |
| As Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. | |
| They will drink our health at dinner—those who tell us how they love us, | 20 |
| And forget us till another year be gone! | |
| Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh! the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! | |
| Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! | |
| Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. | |
| Gold was good—we hoped to hold it, | 25 |
| And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. | |
| |
| Gray dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together— | |
| As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; | |
| And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether | |
| That drags us back howe’er so far we roam. | 30 |
| Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment— | |
| India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. | |
| If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter, | |
| The door is shut—we may not look behind. | |
| |
| Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus— | 35 |
| As the conches from the temple scream and bray. | |
| With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, | |
| Let us honor, oh my brothers, Christmas Day! | |
| Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors, | |
| And be merry as the custom of our caste; | 40 |
| For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after, | |
| We are richer by one mocking Christmas past. | |
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