I will not listen to thy chant,
O Singer of the Night!
I will not come to the river,
O Thirster after Night!
I will not wander among graves,
O Traveller in the Night!
I have built my home on the strand
In the sound of the song of the Ocean.
I have seen the sun rise
Upon the Last Night’s passing,
And I will hasten home and welcome
At my window the Bird of Morn.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

I heard Him playing on His flute
And the stars sat listening in the sky.
The notes came pouring down the hills
And mingled with the murmur of streams.
I stood beneath the bower of night
And fixed my ears in the sky,
And gave my heart and my mind
To hear the song of His piping.
The winds lay asleep on the bosom
Of the drowsy sea,
I saw the Queen of Dreams standing
On tip-toe at the heavens’ edge.
The stars closed their eyes and died
In the joy of His song,
And I know not myself since His melody
Entered my soul.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

On the sky-hid uplands of Kansu,
Where the Sampo winds
Among pale purple asters, lit-blood poppies,
And rosy twinkling primulas,
There lived a little boy named Foo,
Motherless and unfriended.
One evening as the sun went down he stood
Before the gaunt, bare cliff, Jing Ko,
And called aloud and said:
“Mother, where art thou?”
And out of the dusky shadows
Came a threefold echo,
Wave upon wave, ringing
With tender throbs of memory,
And Foo believed it was his mother’s voice,
Answering his call from her high dwelling
On the shadowy ledge above the eagle’s nest.
And when the evening cow-bells tinkled
In the valley and the tired day-god went to rest,
Foo would stand before Jing Ko and call aloud
And listen to his mother’s answer:
“Thou… thou… thou.”
One day came Hilpi, the sister of his mother,
And kissed him and took him to her home,
Down in the smoke-roofed village of Lil-Cho.
And Foo ran out at evening to the village green
And called aloud as was his wont:
“Mother, where art thou?”
No answer came, and little Foo shouted again
And yet again,
And still he called, until the chamber
Of his speech was shattered—and he died.
Even today the pilgrim lays a tear—
Offering on the mute grave of little Foo,
Nestled among pale purple asters,
Lit-blood poppies, and rosy twinkling primulas,
On the sky-hid uplands of Kansu.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

I saw her in the morning climbing the steeps
With a basket of fruits in her hand;
She smiled as she climbed, high and high,
Up to the peak where the moon was sinking
At day-dawn.
“Whither goest thou? And to whom art thou
Bearing these fruits, little mother?” I asked.
And smiling she answered,
“I carry the love-offerings of the living
To their beloved who dwell in the moon.”
And I saw her enter the moon like a star
Smiling itself away into the glory
Of the morning sun.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

I am not God nor His messenger,
I am only a singing bird.
I am not Poet nor his Muse,
I am only a singing bird.
I am not Prophet, I am not sage.
I am only a singing bird.
I fly in the heav’ns across the seas,
And come to sing at thy door,
Each dawn when the morning god
Smiles on the ocean.
Each eve when the twilight god
Sings at earth’s ends.
Each night when the god of thy heart
Sits in silence, alone with the god of my heart.
I am only a singing bird.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

“Dost thou not love me?”
Said the spring grass to the smiling sun,
“Under the snow I sat, waiting for thee,
While storms were raging in the misty skies.
Did I see thee come in the wintry night
Or hear the beetle chirr?”
“I came and I came again
And peeped at thee through the snow,
I danced on the yellow moss each morn
Outside thy door,
And under thine ice-latticed window each eve
I sang thee a new serenade” said the sun.
“I lay asleep in my lightless home and in dreams
I heard thy song,
And I knew that thy heart was true and again
I should see thee in Spring.”
So spake the fair spring grass
And trembled in the breeze,
And the gentle sun touched her brow
With his ruby lips of rays.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)

There was once a great King Ra,
Who ruled the land of Va wisely and well.
His subjects were true and noble
And lived in the love of God.
They knew not poverty, disease or war,
And no man left this life,
Until the blossoms of a hundred summers
Had smiled before his eyes.
Their gardens were full of fruit,
Their fields were full of corn,
And full of honey were their hives.
Thus, in the happy land of Va,
King Ra ruled righteously for eighty summers.
And there came an angel from God’s heaven
And said,
“Hail, King! God is merciful, and by His grace,
Even with this thy body of clay,
Shall thou ascend to Heav’n.”
And the King spoke and said:
“Glory to God in the Height,
for He hath shown mercy unto His servant Ra.
But shall I be happy in Heaven,
O kindly messenger,
Without my minister Hu
And all my good people of Va?”
And the angel said:
“By the mercy of God Thou, and thy servant Hu
And all the good people of Va,
Shall ascend to Heav’n and live for ever.”
So did it come to pass,
And men of faithful heart even in these our days.
See in the firmament,
The heavenly city of the virtuous Ra.
The great king of the ancient land, the land of Va.

Swami Sri Ananda Acharya (1881-1945)