The last one among the random poems is from the anthology Early Indian Poetry in English (1829-1947). It has been edited by Eunice de Souza, and I picked up this book from the NCPA store during the Mumbai LitFest.
– Dhan Gopal Mukherji
They call me crazed, for I console the moon,
I know the hour when she began to weep –
It was when the poets were slain that night.
Lo, how they lie:
Those who were more restless than the sea
And more serene than the height-humbling eagle in his flight –
They are gone, gods and singers;
Only the moon remains,
Vainly carrying her silver lyre;
They call me crazed, for I console the moon.
Because poets still get slain and the moon still needs to be consoled time and again.