The Secret Splendour

What country shall I take as mine? Iran

Is but the perfume of a rose long dead;

While India that has moulded me a man

Whose heart goes throbbing with a sunset-red

And straining towards a mystery beyond eyes

Makes deeper yet the homelessness of me.

 I move a stranger whose horizon flies

Hither and thither, settles on no sea

Guarding and lulling one dear and alone.

Fire-cult that neighboured the Greek world of thought

Burns through my Persian blood to Europe's large

 Earth-richness; India's infinite Unknown

Lures up the same fire-cry—both stay uncaught.

My country's a future where all dream-lights merge.

1945

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