A red hydrangea in its brilliant dress Apart from pinks and multicoloured blues Calls me as I walk the garden path. A last lone iris singing by the lake Greets me as I near in dulcet tones. In the torrid heat of summer flowers rest, Even roses desultory blooms Are muted in the white-hot heat of day. O India, your jasmine-scented lands Sweetly call this traveller of song. Now autumn whispers in the tinted leaves And the mornings of my life grow cool once more.
Poems Undated (1727)
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