The Island Grave

Ocean is there, and evening; the slow moan
Of the blue waves that like a shaken robe
Two heard together once, one hears alone.

Now gliding white and hushed towards our globe
Keen January with cold eyes and clear
And snowdrops pendent in each frosty lobe

Ushers the firstborn of the radiant year.
Haply his feet, that grind the breaking mould,
May brush the dead grass on thy secret bier;

Haply his joyless fingers wan and cold
Caress the ruined masses of thy hair,
Pale child of winter, dead ere youth was old.

Art thou so desolate in that bitter air
That even his breath feels warm upon thy face?
Ah! till the daffodil is born, forbear,

And I will meet thee in that lonely place,
Then the grey dawn shall end my hateful days
And death admit me to the silent ways.

Sri Aurobindo Ghose.