The Gift of India
by Sarojini Naidu (1879-1949)
Is there aught you need that my hands withhold,Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold?Lo! I have flung to the East and WestPriceless treasures torn from my breast,And yielded the sons of my stricken wombTo the drum-beats of duty, the sabres of doom.
Gathered like pearls in their alien gravesSilent they sleep by the Persian waves,Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands,They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands,They are strewn like blossoms mown down by chanceOn the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France.
Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weepOr compass the woe of the watch I keep?Or the pride that thrills thro’ my heart’s despairAnd the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer?And the far sad glorious vision I seeOf the torn red banners of Victory?
When the terror and tumult of hate shall ceaseAnd life be refashioned on anvils of peace,And your love shall offer memorial thanksTo the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,And you honour the deeds of the deathless onesRemember the blood of thy martyred sons!
