ENGLISH Paraphrasing a Poem.

How and where? I know not.
Perhaps I will become a

figment of your imagination

and may be, spreading myself

in a mysterious line

on your canvas,
I will keep staring at you.
Perhaps I will become a ray

of sunshine, to be

embraced by your colours.
I will paint myself on your canvas

I know not how and where ’

but I will meet you for sure.
Maybe I will turn into a spring,

and rub the foaming ’

drops of water on your body,

and rest my coolness on

your burning chest.
I know nothing else
but that this life
will walk along with me.
When the body perishes, all perishes;
but the threads of memory

are woven with enduring specks.
I will pick these particles
weave the threads,
and I will meet you yet again.

It has grown Slowly consuming the earth,
Rising out of it, feeding

Upon its crust, absorbing

Years of sunlight, air, water,
And out of its leprous hide

Sprouting leaves.
So hack and chop
But this alone won’t do it.
Not so much pain will do it.
The bleeding bark will heal

And from close to the ground ’

Will rise curled green twigs,
Miniature boughs
Which if unchecked will expand again

To former size.
No,
The root is to be pulled out

Out of the anchoring earth;
It is to be roped, tied,
And pulled out-snapped out

Or pulled out entirely,
Out. from the earth-cave,
And the strength of the tree exposed,
The source, white and wet,
The most sensitive, hidden

For years inside the earth.
Then the matter

Of scorching and choking In sun and air,
Browning, hardening,
Twisting, withering,
And then it is done.

And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew

From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall

To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes

That hurried all abroad,
They looked like frightened beads,

I thought; He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers

And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

His father one way best of all.”
“In the stillest hour of night

The boy awakened to a light.”
“Half in dreams, he saw his sire

With his great hands full of fire.”
“The man had struck a match to see

If his son slept peacefully.”

I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.
I walk into a room Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.”

The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;

Now nothing but comes readier to the hand Them this accustomed toil…

the time sped by.

The Sun rose to the mid sky and doves

cooed in the shade.

Withered leaves danced and whirled in the

hot air of noon.

The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed th

the shadow of the banyan tree.

and I laid myself down by the water

and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.

My companions laughed at me in scorn:

they held their heads high and hurried on:

they never looked bach nor rested:

they vanished in the distant blue haze

Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?

From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide from my face?

You cannot miss that in

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comigort, travel-sore and weak?

of labour you shall find the sum

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

Yea, beds for all who come.

-Christina Rossetti

I have no stomach for such meal

In little light and narrow room.

They eat it in the silent tomb,

With no kind voice of comrade near

But friendship is a nobler thing-

of friendship It is good to sing.

For truly, when a mau shall end.

He lives in

memory of his friend.

To bid the feaster be of cheer

Who doth his better part recall

And of his fault make funeral

-Austin Dobson

Let the lave go by me.

Give the jolly heaven above

And the by-way nigh me.

Bed in the bush with stars to see-

Bread dip in the river-

There's the life for a man like me.

There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late.

Let what will be o'er me:

Give the face of earth around.

And the road before me.

Wealth I seek not. hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me;

All I seek, the heaven above.

And the road below the

-R. L. Stevenson

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life, and bade thee feed

By the stream and o'er the mead:

Gave thee clothing of delight.

Softest clothing woolly bright

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Linte lamb, I'll tell thee:

Lule lamb, I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name.

For He calls Himself a lamb

He is meek and He is mild,

He became a little child.

I a child and Thou a Lamb,

We are called by His name.

Little lamb. God bless thee!

Luule lamb, God bless thee!

-William Blake

Where the mind is without fear

And the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free:

Where the world has not been broken up

Into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches

Its arms towards perfection:

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way

Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit:

Where the mind is led forward by Thee

Into ever-widening thought and action

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father,

Let my country awake.

-Rabindranath Tagore