T.S. ELIOT'S
JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
(Done into metre by Nirmaldasan)
A cold coming it was indeed;
The worst time of the waning year
To go a-seeking newer creed.
The ways were deep and dimly clear,
Sharp the weather and wintry cold;
And snow o'er snow afar and near.
Sore-footed -- though of sterner mould --
The camels galled; we just could fret
And fume (our woe will here be told).
Trying times did make us regret
Summer palaces upon slopes
And silk'n girls a-serving sherbet.
Our fears were great and less our hopes;
Camel men a-cursing went their way
Wanting liquor, women and dopes.
Night-fires went out, no place to stay,
And hostile towns devoid of ease,
Villages sick -- a price to pay.
So, ill at ease in times as these,
We chose to travel all the night
Save forty winks under the trees.
But aching thoughts put rest to flight;
And voices strange in our ears sing,
"This is just folly, cause of plight."
When dawn at east began a-breaking
We came unto a temperate vale;
But not the place we were a-seeking.
But well below the snowy pale
Were telling signs of greenery,
Wet with a streaming rill of ale.
Besides a mill a-beating with glee,
We saw three trees caress the skies
And white old steed that gallops free.
We found a tavern, den of vice;
And there before our eyes unrolled
Six drunken hands for silver dice.
Our queries met with glances cold;
So on we travelled, slow and fast...
And reached by eve -- ah joy untold!
All these befell in time that passed;
And I would venture out again,
But this setdown it seems to last:
Were we a-led that way in vain?
For Birth or Death? But these I thought
Were different as joy from pain.
No lasting peace the new Birth brought;
It tasted like a draught of Death
Bringing the olden faith to nought.
The order old still holds its breath,
The alien masses hold their gods.
And I'd be glad of ’nother death.
tinai 1
