{"id":456,"date":"2013-07-13T01:28:07","date_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:28:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/localhost\/?p=456"},"modified":"2013-07-13T01:28:07","modified_gmt":"2013-07-13T01:28:07","slug":"47-the-feast-of-youth-vol-17-the-hour-of-god-volume-17","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/worksofthemotherandsriaurobindo.org\/index.php\/01-works-of-sri-aurobindo\/01-sabcl\/17-the-hour-of-god-volume-17\/47-the-feast-of-youth-vol-17-the-hour-of-god-volume-17","title":{"rendered":"-47_The Feast of Youth.htm"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n
\n
\n

\nThe Feast of Youth *
\n<\/font><\/b> <\/p>\n

\n <\/p>\n

\n                                    
\n<\/font>
\n<\/span>
\nTHIS<\/font><\/b> is the
\nfirst published book of a young poet whose name has recently and suddenly
\nemerged under unusually favourable auspices. English poetry written by\u00a0 <\/span>an Indian writer who uses the foreign medium
\nas if it were his mother- tongue, with a spontaneous ease, power and beauty,
\nthe author a brother of the famous poetess Sarojini Naidu, one of a family
\nwhich promises to be as remarkable as the Tagores by its possession of culture,
\ntalent and genius, challenging attention and sympathy by his combination of
\nextreme youth and a high and early brilliance and already showing in his work,
\neven though still \u00a0<\/span>im<\/i>mature,
\nmagnificent performance as well as a promise which makes it difficult to put
\nany limits to the heights he may attain, – the book at once attracts interest
\nand has come into immediate prominence amidst general appreciation and
\nadmiration. We have had already in the same field of achievement in Sarojini
\nNaidu’s poetry qualities which make her best work exquisite, unique and
\nunmatchable in its kind. The same qualities are not to be found in this book,
\nbut it shows other high gifts which, when brought to perfection, must find an
\nequal pitch with a greater scope. Here perhaps. are the beginnings of a supreme
\nutterance of the Indian soul in the rhythms of the English tongue. <\/p>\n

    That is a combination which,
\nit may be well hoped for the sake of India’s future, will not become too
\nfrequent a phenomenon. But at the present moment it serves both an artistic and
\na national purpose and seems to be part of the movement of
\ndestiny. In any case, whatever may be said of the made-in-India type of
\nsecond-hand English verse in which men of great literary gift in southern India
\ntoo often waste their talent, Mr. Chattopadhyay’s production justifies itself
\nby its beauty. This is not only genuine poetry, but the work of a young, though
\nstill unripe genius with an incalculable promise of greatness in it. As to the<\/p>\n

   
\n* Poems by Harindranath Chattopadhyay, Theosophical Publishing House, Adyar,
\nMadras. <\/font><\/p>\n

\nPage-304<\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

abundance here of all the essential materials, the instruments, the elementary
\npowers of the poetical gift, there can be not a moment’s doubt or hesitation.
\nEven the first few lines, though far from the best, are quite decisive. A rich
\nand finely lavish command of language, a firm possession of his metrical
\ninstrument, an almost blinding gleam and glitter of the wealth of imagination
\nand fancy, a stream of unfailingly poetic thought and image and a high though
\nas yet uncertain pitch of expression, are the powers with which the young poet
\nstarts. There have been poets of a great final achievement who have begun with
\ngifts of a less precious stuff and had by labour within themselves and a
\ndifficult alchemy to turn them into pure gold. Mr. Chattopadhyay is not of
\nthese; he is rather overburdened with the favours of the goddess, comes like
\nsome Vedic Marut with golden weapons, golden ornaments, car of gold, throwing
\nin front of him continual lightnings of thought in the midst of a shining rain
\nof fancies, .and a greater government and a more careful and concentrated use
\nrather than an enhancement of his powers is the one thing his poetry needs for
\nits perfection.
\n      <\/span>The name of the volume,
\ntaken from its first poem, The Feast of Youth, <\/i>is an appropriate
\ndescription of its spirit, though one is inclined to call it rather a riot or
\nrevel than a simple feast. It is the singing of a young bacchanal of the Muse
\ndrunk with a bright and heady wine. In his first poem he promises to himself,<\/p>\n

O! I shall draw the blue out of the skies <\/p>\n

And offer it like wine of paradise
\nTo drunken Youth…<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

and the rest is an ample fulfilment of the promise. For the thought and
\nsentiment are an eager, fine and fiery drinking of the joy of life and being,
\nnot in the pagan or physically sensuous kind of enjoyment, but with a spiritual
\nand singularly pure intoxication of the thought, imagination and higher sense.
\nThe spiritual joy of existence, of its primal colour and symbolic subtleties,
\nits essential sense, images, suggestions, a free and in- tense voluptuousness
\nof light is the note. Occasionally there is the attempt to bring in an
\nincidental tone of sorrow, but attacked <\/p>\n

\nPage -305<\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

by the glowing atmosphere of exultation, overcome and rendered unreal by the
\nsurrounding light and bliss, it fails to convince. Expression matches
\nsubstance; there is here no holding back, no reticence, no idea of self-restraint,
\nbut rather a reckless ecstasy and outpouring. Suggestion chases suggestion,
\nfancy runs after or starts away from fancy with no very exacting sequence; the
\nexhilaration of self-utterance dominates. One is a little dazzled at first and
\nhas to accustom the eyes to the glitter, before one can turn to the heart of
\nthe meaning: excess, profusion, an unwearied lavishing of treasures creates the
\ncharm of the manner as well as its limitations; but this is often an excellent
\nsign in a young poet, for it promises much richness in the hour of maturity;
\nand here it is almost always, – not quite always, for there are lapses, – a
\nfine, though not yet a sovereign excess, which continually attracts and
\nstimulates the imagination, if it does not always quite take it captive.
\n        <\/span>There is here
\nperhaps a side effect of one remarkable peculiarity of Mr. Chattopadhyay’s
\npoetical mentality. There is a background in it of Hindu Vedantic thought and
\nfeeling which comes out especially in "Fire", "Dusk",
\n"Messages" and other poems; but will be foul\\d repeatedly elsewhere
\nand runs through the whole as a sort of undercurrent; but the mould of the
\nthought, the colour and tissue of the feeling betray a Moslem, a Persia’n; a Snfi influence. This source of inspiration appears in the title’ of some of the
\npoems, and it has helped perhaps the tendency to lavishness. Sanskrit poetry,
\neven when it clothes itself’ in the regal gold and purple of Kalidasa, or flows
\nin the luscious warnith and colour of Jayadeva, keeps still a certain
\nbackground of massive restraint, embanks itself in a certain firm solidity; the
\nlater poetry of the regional languages, though it has not that quality, is
\noftenest sparing at heart, does not give itself up to a curious opulence. But
\nthe Moslem mind has the tendency of mosaic and arabesque, loves the glow of
\nmany colours, the careful jewellery of image and phrase; its poetry is
\nappareled like a daughter of the Badshahs.<\/p>\n

Her girdles and her fillets gleam <\/p>\n

Like changing fires
\non Sunset seas:<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

\nPage -306<\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

\n             <\/span>Her raiment is like morning
\nmist,<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
\n<\/span>Shot opal, gold and amethyst.<\/p>\n

Mr. Chattopadhyay’s spirit and manner are too expansive for the carefully
\ncompressed artistry of the Persian poets, but the influence of the passion for
\ndecorative colour is there. But though the kinship is visible even in the
\nexternal expression, what is more striking, is a certain idiosyncrasy of the
\nfancy, the turn given to the thought, the colour of the vision, which are very
\noften of the Sufi type. Something of the union of the two cultures appeared in
\nthe temperament of Mrs. Naidu’s poetry, but here it is more subtly visible as
\npart of the intellectual strain. This is however only one shaping influence
\nbehind: except in one or two poems, where we get some echo of his sister’s
\nmanner and movement, this young poet is astonishingly original; it is himself
\nthat he utters in every line.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The thought-substance, the
\ngoverning inspiration of this poetry is such as might well from a fusion of the
\nVedantic and the Sufi mentality. It is the utterance of a mystical joy in God
\nand Nature, sometimes of the direct God-union, – but this is not quite so
\nsuccessful – more characteristically of God through Nature. Yet this is not
\nusually the physical Nature that we feel with the outward bodily sense; it is a
\nmystic life of light and ecstasy behind her, hidden in sun and moon and star,
\nmorning and noon and dusk and night, sea and sky and earth. It is to bring this
\nremoter splendid vision near to us that image is strained and crowded, symbol
\nmultiplied. We get this mystic sense and aspiration in the poem,
\n"Fire", in an image of love, –<\/p>\n

\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>I am athirst for one glimpse of
\nyour beautiful <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
\n<\/span>face, O Love!
\n       
\nVeiled in the mystical silence of stars and the <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
\n<\/span>purple of skies.<\/p>\n

\nThe closing lines of the "Hour of Rest" express it more barely, – I
\nquote them only for their directness, though the expression stumbles and even
\nlapses badly in the last two lines, – <\/p>\n

\nPage -307<\/font><\/i><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

\n

There is a
\nsweetness in the world <\/p>\n

That I
\nhave sometimes felt,
\nAnd
\noft in fragrant petals curl’d <\/p>\n

His
\nfragrance I have smelt…
\nAnd in sad notes of birds, unfurl’d <\/p>\n

The
\nkindness He hath dealt!<\/p>\n<\/p>\n

It is more beautifully and mystically brought out in another poem,
\n"Worship", –<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0        <\/span>Like a rich song you chant your red-fire
\nsunrise,
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0    <\/span>Deep\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>in my dreams, and forge your white-flame
\nmoon… <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0  
\n<\/span>You hide the crimson secret of your sunset,
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0   <\/span>And the pure, golden
\nmessage of your noon.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
\n<\/span>You fashion cool-grey clouds within my body, <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>And weave your rain into a
\ndiamond mesh. <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The Universal Beauty
\ndances, dances
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>A glimmering peacock
\nin my flowering.flesh!<\/p>\n

Spring lives as a symbol of inner experience, universal spring,-<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The Spring-hues
\ndeepen into human Bliss!
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The heart of God and
\nman in scent are blended…
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The sky meets earth
\nand heaven in one transparent kiss…<\/p>\n

Simple, moving, melodious and direct is its utterance in "Messages",
\nwith one image at least which deepens into intimate revelation, –<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>In my slumber and my waking
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>I can hear His
\nsobbing flute…<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Thro’ the springtime and
\nthe autumn <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Shaping every flower and
\nfruit… <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>And His gleaming laughter
\ncolours <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Orange hills and purple
\nstreams, <\/p>\n

                     <\/span>He is throbbing in the
\ncrystal, <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>Magic centre of my
\ndreams… <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 
\n<\/span>Silver stars are visible twinkles <\/p>\n

\nPage -308<\/font><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

                      <\/span>Of His clear,
\ntransparent touch…
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>He is moving every
\nmoment <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>To the world He loves so
\nmuch!<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>In the sea<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>God churns thy waters
\ninto silvern foam <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>And breathes His music into
\nevery shell…<\/p>\n

Noon is the Master’s "mystic dog with paws of fire" and "Behind
\nthe clouds some hidden Flutist plays His flute". These are some of the
\nmore overt and express phrasings of the predominant idea, exquisite in harmony,
\nlovely and subtly penetrating in their thought. Elsewhere it is simply Nature
\nand the bliss, light and wonder behind her that are expressed, the rest is
\nconcealed, yet suggested in the light. But there is always the same principle
\nof a bright mystic vision and the transmutation of natural things into symbol
\nvalues of the universal light, joy and beauty.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>This poetry is an
\nutterance of an ancient mystic experience with a new tone and burden of its
\nown. Its very character brings in a certain limitation, it is empty of the
\ntouch of normal human life; our passion is absent, the warm blood of our
\nemotion does not run through the veins of this Muse to flush her cheek with
\nearthly colour. There is indeed a spiritual passion, a spiritual, not a
\nphysical sensuousness. Light and ecstasy there is, not the flame of earth’s
\ndesire. Heaven takes up the symbols of the earth- life, but there is not the
\nbringing of the Divine into the normal hues of our sight and our feeling which
\nis the aim of Vaishnava poetry. Crystal is a favourite epithet of the poet, and
\nthere is here something crystalline, a rainbow prism of colours in the
\nwhiteness of shining stalactites. There is at first even some impression of a
\nbright and fiery coldness of purity, as of a virgin rarity of the atmosphere of
\nsome high dawn, or as if that had happened which is imaged in "Dusk",<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Ah God! my heart is
\nturning crystalline <\/p>\n

                Seeing Thee play at crystal stars
\nabove!<\/p>\n

or as if the poet had indeed, as he writes elsewhere, "put out the<\/p>\n

\nPage
\n-309<\/font>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

lamp of his love and desire, for their light is not real", and replaced
\nthem by the miraculous fire of this shining ideal. In the Sonnets, however, in
\nsome other poems and in the poet’s later work there is the beginning of greater
\nwarmth and a nearer sweetness.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The genius, power, newness
\nof this poetry is evident. If certain reserves have to be made, it is because
\nof a frequent immaturity in the touch which at times makes itself too sharply
\nfelt and is seldom altogether absent. I do not refer to the occasional lapses
\nand carelessnesses of which I have noted one example, – for these are not very
\nnumerous, and the flagrant subjection of the expression to the necessity of the
\nrhyme occurs only in that one passage, – but to the fact that the poet is still
\ntoo much possessed by his gifts rather than their possessor, too easily carried
\naway by the delight of brilliant expression and image to steep his word always
\nin the deeper founts of his inspiration. The poetic expression is always
\nbrilliant, but never for long together quite sure, – lines of most perfect
\nbeauty too often alternate with others which are by no means so good. The
\nimage-maker’s faculty is used with a radiant splendour and lavishness, but
\nwithout discrimination; what begins as imaginative vision frequently thins away
\ninto a bright play of fancy, and there are lines which come dangerously near to
\nprettiness and conceit. Especially there is not yet that sufficient incubation
\nof the inspiration and the artistic sense which turns a poem into a perfectly
\nsatisfying artistic whole; even in the Sonnets, beautiful enough in themselves,
\nthere is an insufficient force of structure. The totality of effect in most of
\nthese poems is a diffusion, a streaming on from one idea and image to another,
\nnot a well-completed shapeliness. The rhythmic turn is always good, often
\nbeautiful and admirable, but the subtlest secrets of sound have not yet been
\nfirmly discovered, they are only as it were glimpsed and caught in passing.
\nThese limitations however matter very little as they are natural in a first and
\nearly work and do not count in comparison with the riches disclosed. Moreover
\nthere is quite enough to show that they are likely to be rapidly outgrown.
\nYoung as he is, the poet has already almost all the secrets, and has only to
\nuse<\/p>\n

\nPage -310 <\/font> <\/p>\n

\n
\n<\/div>\n

them more firmly and constantly. Already – in. most of the poems, but I may
\ninstance "Memory", "My Unlaunched Boat", the three Sonnets
\nand some of the "Songs of Sunlight," – there is the frequency of a
\nfull and ripe expression and movement, sometimes varying from a mellow clarity
\nto a concentrated force, –<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>daylight dies
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>In silence on
\nthe bosom of the darkening skies
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>And with him,
\nevery note
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Is crushed to
\nsilent sorrow in the song-bird’s throat,-<\/p>\n

sometimes in a soft, clear and magical beauty, –<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The Spring hath
\ncome and gone with all her coloured hours. <\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>The earth beneath her
\ntread
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Laughed
\nsuddenly a peal of blue and green and red…<\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span>And for her tender beauty wove a
\nflowery bed…
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>She gathered
\nall her touch-born blossoms from bright bowers.. . <\/p>\n

                          And fled. with all the laughter of
\nearth’s flowers…<\/p>\n

sometimes in a delicate brightness and richness, constantly in a daring yet
\nperfectly successful turn, suggestion or subtle corres- pondence of image.
\nThere is often an extraordinary and original felicity in the turning of the
\nphysical image to bring out some deep and penetrating psychological or
\npsychical suggestion.
\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span>Since the
\nappearance of this book Mr. Chattopadhyay has given to the public one or two
\nseparate poems of a still greater beauty which show a very swift development of
\nhis powers; he is already overcoming, almost though not yet quite entirely, the
\ntouch of unripeness which was apparent in his earlier poems. Sure ness of
\nexpression, a thought in full possession of itself and using in admirable
\nconcordance its imaginative aids and means, subtler turns of melody and
\nharmony, especially an approach to firmer structural power are now strongly
\nvisible and promise the doubling of the ecstatic poet with an impeccable
\nartist. There is also a greater warmth and nearness, a riper stress, a deeper<\/p>\n

\nPage -311<\/font><\/p>\n

\n

musing. We
\nmay well hope to find in him a supreme singer of the vision of God in Nature
\nand Life, and the meeting of the divine and the human which must be at first
\nthe most vivifying and liberating part of India’s message to a humanity that is
\nnow touched everywhere by a growing will for the spiritualising of the earth
\nexistence.
\n <\/p>\n

Page -312<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/table>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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