Sarojini Naidu

(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949 / Hyderabad / India)

Sarojini Naidu Poems

1. A Love Song From The North 1/3/2003
2. A Rajput Love Song 1/3/2003
3. Alabaster 1/1/2004
4. An Indian Love Song 1/3/2003
5. Autumn Song 1/3/2003
6. Corn Grinders 1/1/2004
7. Coromandel Fishers 1/3/2003
8. Cradle Song 1/1/2004
9. Damayante To Nala In The Hour Of Exile 1/1/2004
10. Ecstasy 1/3/2003
11. Harvest Hymn 1/1/2004
12. Humayun To Zobeida (From The Urdu) 1/1/2004
13. In Praise Of Henna 1/1/2004
14. In Salutation To The Eternal Peace 1/3/2003
15. In The Bazaars Of Hyderabad 4/7/2010
16. In The Forest 1/1/2004
17. Indian Dancer 1/1/2004
18. Indian Love Song 1/1/2004
19. Indian Weavers 1/1/2004
20. Leili 1/1/2004
21. Life 1/1/2004
22. My Dead Dream 1/1/2004
23. Nightfall In The City Of Hyderabad 1/1/2004
24. Ode To H.H. The Nizam Of Hyderabad 1/1/2004
25. Palanquin Bearers 1/3/2003
26. Past And Future 1/1/2004
27. Song Of A Dream 1/1/2004
28. Street Cries 1/1/2004
29. Suttee 1/1/2004
30. The Bangle Sellers 4/7/2010
31. The Coromandel Fishers 4/7/2010
32. The Illusion Of Love 4/7/2010
33. The Indian Gipsy 1/1/2004
34. The Pardah Nashin 1/1/2004
35. The Poet To Death 1/1/2004
36. The Poet's Love-Song 1/3/2003
37. The Queen's Rival 1/1/2004
38. The Royal Tombs Of Golconda 1/1/2004
39. The Snake Charmer 4/7/2010
40. The Song Of Princess Zeb-Un-Nissa In Praise Of Her Own Beauty 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Sarojini Naidu

Palanquin Bearers

Lightly, O lightly we bear her along,
She sways like a flower in the wind of our song;
She skims like a bird on the foam of a stream,
She floats like a laugh from the lips of a dream.
Gaily, O gaily we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Softly, O softly we bear her along,
She hangs like a star in the dew of our song;
She springs like a beam on the brow of the tide,
She falls like a tear from the eyes of a bride.
Lightly, O lightly we glide and we sing,
We bear her along like a pearl on a string.

Read the full of Palanquin Bearers

Alabaster

LIKE this alabaster box whose art
Is frail as a cassia-flower, is my heart,
Carven with delicate dreams and wrought
With many a subtle and exquisite thought.


Therein I treasure the spice and scent
Of rich and passionate memories blent
Like odours of cinnamon, sandal and clove,
Of song and sorrow and life and love.

[Hata Bildir]