On The Sea’s Bosom

In blue sky floats a multitude of clouds – White, black, of many shades and thicknesses; An orange sun, about to say farewell, Touches the massed cloud-shapes with streaks of red.

The wind blows as it lists, a hurricane Now carving shapes, now breaking them apart: Fancies, colours, forms, inert creations – A myriad scenes, though real, yet fantastic.

There light clouds spread, heaping up spun cotton; See next a huge snake, then a strong lion; Again, behold a couple locked in love. All vanish, at last, in the vapoury sky.

Below, the sea sings a varied music,
But not grand, O India, nor ennobling:
Thy waters, widely praised, murmur serene
In soothing cadence, without a harsh roar.