An Elegy for a Daughter
by Shamik Banerjee
For the daughter in heaven’s grace,
who left this earth at childhood's face;
to ports afar from mother’s eyes,
in treasured form of infancy,
is freed from holds of woes and cries--
I sit to write her elegy.
Six years lived she and taken thence
by the Lord to his orchard, dense:
with flowers and shade-lapping trees
and huge, rundle-like stars of gold,
where brushes the light, tidal breeze
in kingdom of her new-come bold.
In womb’s care, her spirit was sent,
so together, her joy be spent--
through years of beauty, smiles and growth,
in concerned heart of mother's boon;
but welkin’s choice, did make the oath
to take her presence very soon.
The Lord did think, “Such holy birth,
is made not for this mortal girth
but for the state that lieth here,
on land eternal, free of age
with beatific fays poising near,
from transitory days and stage.”
She made was not for nature’s laws,
nor brevity of bliss and loss;
but regally, to make her tread
in true bearing and elation,
with deference from genteel stead
send blessings to whole creation.
An angel so, when she was born--
as lightsome as a dawning morn,
now sits beside a gurgling brook,
with radiance of love doth stare,
which chunters to her lovely look,
“Thou art within my love and care.”
Now she is nigh a verdured dene
and friended by a lough serene;
now she is merry by a rill,
where ireful combers do not wave;
now she is peaceful on a hill,
where fearsome tremors do not stave.
Her grandparents, despair and feel
the trenches of her death's ordeal;
her kindreds too now sorrow make,
yet, one warm cause their ruth console:
from this forken world, she did brake
than being on its soreness to condole.
And though her mother’s iris weeps
to weep how far her daughter sleeps;
does finds her in lilies of peace,
and ken in other maiden's smile;
and with these thoughts, light succor ease;
and with these thoughts, to breathe awhile.
Whose posterity could not bring,
the dewdrops of a newer spring;
sweet lassie at inceptive years,
could eldern days, not touch or goam,
but with her cheeks of fledgling tears,
in palace of clouds, made her home.
Now when thro’ window, comes a draft,
inkles the mother to her craft;
she sets to her verses indite--
among odes, dirges and proses,
against the day or falling night
and to adorn her with roses.
To God, when anthem, she doth pray,
she wishes coming of the day,
to hie where dwells her daughter's soul
and embrace her in bosom then,
their tie, where will, reawake as whole
and joy in them, re-home again
who left this earth at childhood's face;
to ports afar from mother’s eyes,
in treasured form of infancy,
is freed from holds of woes and cries--
I sit to write her elegy.
Six years lived she and taken thence
by the Lord to his orchard, dense:
with flowers and shade-lapping trees
and huge, rundle-like stars of gold,
where brushes the light, tidal breeze
in kingdom of her new-come bold.
In womb’s care, her spirit was sent,
so together, her joy be spent--
through years of beauty, smiles and growth,
in concerned heart of mother's boon;
but welkin’s choice, did make the oath
to take her presence very soon.
The Lord did think, “Such holy birth,
is made not for this mortal girth
but for the state that lieth here,
on land eternal, free of age
with beatific fays poising near,
from transitory days and stage.”
She made was not for nature’s laws,
nor brevity of bliss and loss;
but regally, to make her tread
in true bearing and elation,
with deference from genteel stead
send blessings to whole creation.
An angel so, when she was born--
as lightsome as a dawning morn,
now sits beside a gurgling brook,
with radiance of love doth stare,
which chunters to her lovely look,
“Thou art within my love and care.”
Now she is nigh a verdured dene
and friended by a lough serene;
now she is merry by a rill,
where ireful combers do not wave;
now she is peaceful on a hill,
where fearsome tremors do not stave.
Her grandparents, despair and feel
the trenches of her death's ordeal;
her kindreds too now sorrow make,
yet, one warm cause their ruth console:
from this forken world, she did brake
than being on its soreness to condole.
And though her mother’s iris weeps
to weep how far her daughter sleeps;
does finds her in lilies of peace,
and ken in other maiden's smile;
and with these thoughts, light succor ease;
and with these thoughts, to breathe awhile.
Whose posterity could not bring,
the dewdrops of a newer spring;
sweet lassie at inceptive years,
could eldern days, not touch or goam,
but with her cheeks of fledgling tears,
in palace of clouds, made her home.
Now when thro’ window, comes a draft,
inkles the mother to her craft;
she sets to her verses indite--
among odes, dirges and proses,
against the day or falling night
and to adorn her with roses.
To God, when anthem, she doth pray,
she wishes coming of the day,
to hie where dwells her daughter's soul
and embrace her in bosom then,
their tie, where will, reawake as whole
and joy in them, re-home again
Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with solitude meddles well with peace and poetry provides him an ageless harbourage of happiness. He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute immensely towards its future.