The Harp Of India Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough? Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now? Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain? Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain; Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou, Like ruined monument on desert plain: O! many a hand more worthy far than mine Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave, And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel's grave: Those hands are cold - but if thy notes divine May be by mortal wakened once again, Harp of my country, let me strike the strain! --Henry Louis Vivian Derozio
The Road Not Taken TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. – --Robert Frost
To India O YOUNG through all thy immemorial years! Rise, Mother, rise, regenerate from thy gloom, And, like a bride high-mated with the spheres, Beget new glories from thine ageless womb! The nations that in fettered darkness weep Crave thee to lead them where great mornings break . . . . Mother, O Mother, wherefore dost thou sleep? Arise and answer for thy children's sake! Thy Future calls thee with a manifold sound To crescent honours, splendours, victories vast; Waken, O slumbering Mother and be crowned, Who once wert empress of the...
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