Page 17 - 1917 November - To Dragma

30 TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI TO DRAGMA OF ALPHA OMICRON PI 31

T H E QUIET CORNER INDIAN WEAVERS

Oh, I've fitted up a cosy place in the corner of my heart. Weavers, weaving at break of day,
It's four walls are of friendship and for you it's set apart. Why do you weave a garment so gay?
There's a hearth fire lighted in it, glowing bright as bright can be, Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
Now won't you stay awhile each day, and just be glad with me? We weave the robes of a new-born child.

During the summer the Editor made a new friend in a new poet, Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Sarojini Naidu of India. She is the author of "The Golden Thresh- Why do you weave a garment so bright?
old," a hook of charming poems. Born and bred in India, educated Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
in the strictest of Brahmin circles, she unites the haunting mysticism We weave the marriage veils of a queen.
of Hindu th mght with the rhythm of Indian music. She is still
very young, only a girl in fact, but her fame has spread throughout Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
India, into England, which she has visited, and even to America. What do you weave in the moonlight chill?
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
It is a tribute not only to her own genius but also to the beauty of We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
our language that the two poems here quoted were originally written
in English. The little poem given below is, to the Editor at least, especially
lovely at this Christmas time, when, more than ever before we long to
WANDERING SINGERS catch a glimpse of the human Master.
Where the voice of the wind calls our wandering feet,
"Maybe, in His more human weariness,
Through echoing forest and echoing street, Came little things to comfort and to bless;
With lutes in our hands ever-singing we roam, To touch H i m in a humble way to please.
A l l men are our kindred, the world is our home. Perhaps came little earthly memories.
The simple stir of Nazareth's sun-washed street;
Our lays are of cities whose lustre is shed, The busy sound of Mary's housewife feet;
The laughter and beauty of women long dead, A pattern of leaf-shadows at the door
The sword of old battles, the crown of old kings, The scent of fresh-curled shavings on the floor!"

And happy and simple and sorrowful things.

What hope shall we gather, what dreams shall we sow?
Where the wind calls our wandering foot-steps we go.
No love bids us tarry, no joy bids us wait,

The voice of the wind is the voice of our fate.

SAROJINI NAIDU.