Toru Dutt was an Indian poet who wrote in English and French, and made a mark in literature in spite of her premature death.
She remained in Calcutta till November 1869, after which she and her sister Aru traveled to France, Italy and then England. She went to a school in France for the first time of her life and had an intimacy with French during that period.
After publication of several translations and literary discussions, she published a Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields, a volume of French poems she had translated into English, with Saptahiksambad Press of Bhowanipore, India in 1876. Eight of the poems had been ... more »
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Toru Dutt Poems
'Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry! It is, - it is my husband's voice! Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
Our Casuarina Tree
LIKE a huge Python, winding round and round The rugged trunk, indented deep with scars, Up to its very summit near the star
Love Came to Flora Asking for a Flower
Love came to Flora asking for a flower That would of flowers be undisputed queen, The lily and the rose, long, long had been
A sea of foliage girds our garden round, But not a sea of dull unvaried green, Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
Sitting in a porchway cool, Sunlight, I see, dying fast, Twilight hastens on to rule. Working hours have well-nigh past.
A waif on this earth, Sick, ugly and small, Contemned from my birth And rejected by all,
The sky is dark, the snow descends: Ring, bells, ring out your merriest chime! Jesus is born; the Virgin bends Above him. Oh, the happy time!
The Broken Bell
'Tis bitter-sweet on winter nights to note, Beside the palpitating fire reclined, The chimes, across the fogs, upon the wind. Now loud, now low, now near and now remote.
The Young Captive
The budding shoot ripens unharmed by the scythe, Without fear of the press, on vine branches lithe, Through spring-tide the green clusters bloom. Is't strange, then, that I in my life's morning hour,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
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Edgar Allan Poe
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'Hark! Lakshman! Hark, again that cry!
It is, - it is my husband's voice!
Oh hasten, to his succour fly,
No more hast thou, dear friend, a choice.
He calls on thee, perhaps his foes
Environ him on all sides round,
That wail, - it means death's final throes!
Why standest thou, as magic-bound?
'Is this a time for thought, - oh gird
Thy bright sword on, and take thy bow!
He heeds not, hears not any word,
Evil hangs over us, I know!
Swift in decision, prompt in deed,
Brave unto rashness, can this be,
The man to whom all looked at ...