Poem – A Clear Midnight – Walt Whitman 

THIS is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the 

wordless, 

Away from books, away from art, the day 

erased, the lesson done, 

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, 

pondering the themes thou 

lovest best. 

Night, sleep, death and the stars.

भेट – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल 

पूर्नेको जूनलाई किन पर्खेको ?

भेट्ने उनैलाई हो क्यारे,

तिमी उनैलाई उनकै प्रकाशमा देख,

तिमी उनलाई आजै यो औंसीको रातमा भेट ।

आउने त्यो वसन्तलाई किन कुरेको ?

तिमीले खोजेको फुल हो र ?

उनकै सुवासमा तिमी सास फेर,

तिमी उनलाई आजै यो आएको पुसमै भेट ।

तिमी उनलाई आजै यो औँसीको रातमै भेट ।

भेटमा ओझाले साइत गाओस् भन्ने छ ?

के उनको बोली सुरिलो छैन ?

उनको बोलीको लयमा तिमी खालि मुन्टो हल्लाउँदै—

ताल मात्रै दिन सक,

तिमी उनलाई अहिले नै बिनाबाजा नै भेट ।

तिमी उनलाई आजै यो औँसीको रातमै भेट ।

तिमीले कल्पनामै कैयौंचोटि उनलाई

इन्द्रधनुजस्तो चुनरीको घुम्टो ओढाइदिसकयौ,

मजुरको घाँटी–रङ्गको साटनको चोली लगाइदिसक्यौ,

त्यसैले भेटमा त्यस्तो घुम्टो र चोलो

लैजाने सुर होला,

तर तिमी उनी जस्ती छन् उस्तै नै भेट,

बजार जान बेर नगर ।

उनको लाज नै उनको घुम्टो होस्,

तिम्रो अङ्गालोले उनलाई छोपोस्;

साटनजस्तो उनको छाला हेर,

उनी जस्ती छन् उस्तै नै भेट ।

तिमी उनलाई आजै यो औँसीको रातमा भेट ।

एक गीत – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल 

केही आहझैं केही चाहझैँ

सौरभ छरी वरिपरि

तिमी प्रतीक्षामा झैं कसको

भन न भन कली !

जब भिखारीको हातसरि

फुक्नेछ तिम्रो सुन्दर तन

के ठानी के दिऊँ तिमीलाई

भन न भन कली !

समीप छ हेर्छु देख्छु

तिमी फुले झरेमा

रोए हाँसेझैं गर्छु

तर यै हाँसो यै आँसु

यै समीपताको जीवन–जलमा

तिमीले प्रतिबिम्बित पायौ आफूलाई

भन न भन कली !

सन्देह चियाउँछ जब यो विश्वबीचमा

तिमी दूर हुन्छ्यौ ताराझैं;

दूर हुनाले चाह गरेको

त्यै तारासित तर फिराद यही छ—

किन त्यो मेरो कलीझैं

रोइने हाँसिने भएन

समीप भएन ?

भन न भन कली !

क्षणभरको छोटो जीवन

वसन्त लाख फुलाउँछ !

शिशिर लाख सुकाउँछ !

अनादि भूत अनन्त भविष्यको

कहालीलाग्दो फैलावटबीचमा

कस्तो यो जीवन–काल कली ?

भन न भन कली !

होश – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल 

म मानिस आफ्नो खुशीले जन्मेको होइन,

आफ्नो खुशीले मर्ने पनि होइन ।

यो ज्ञान कसलाई भएको हो साथी ?

यो संसार सपना हो,

जीवन पानीको फोका हो,

यहाँ कोही पनि आफ्ना छैनन्,

जो छन् तिमीजस्तै नै जन्मेका हुन् ।

तिमीजस्तै नै मर्ने हुन् ।

यो वैराग कसलाई भएको हो साथी ?

म सर्वसम्पन्न अर्थात् ईश्वर हुँ,

म भोगी हुँ,

म सिद्ध हुँ,

मजत्तिको अरु कोही छैन,

म मोज गर्छु ।

यस्तो मोहजाल, यस्तो प्रकारको अज्ञान

कसलाइृ भउको हो साथी ?

म मानिस न त आफ्नो खुशीले जन्मेको हुँ,

म आफ्नो खुशीले मर्ने हुं ।

यस्तो मोहजाल, यस्तो प्रकारको अज्ञान

कसलाई भएको हो साथी ?

कामी क्रोधीहरु आफ्नो मनोकामना

पूर्ण गनका लागि अन्यायपूर्वक

धन जम्मा गर्ने चेष्टा गर्छन्,

काम, क्रोध र लोभ यी तीन तमेद्वार हुन्,

यो होश कसलाई भएको हो साथी ?

म त न आफ्नो खुशीले आँखा खोल्ने हुँ,

न आफ्नो खुशीले आँखा चिम्लने हुँ, साथी !

यो होश कसलाई भएको हो साथी ?

जङ्गी निसान हाम्रो – गोपाल प्रसाद रिमाल 

रातो र चन्द्रसुर्जे, जङ्गी निसान हाम्रो।
जिउँदो रगतसरि यो, बल्दो यो सान हाम्रो।।

हिमालझैं अटल यो, झुकेन यो कहिल्यै।

लत्रेन यो कहिल्यै, जङ्गी निसान हाम्रो।।

यो जन्मँदै जगत्मा कैयौं प्रहार आए।

साम्राज्य दुई हारे, हारेन सान हाम्रो।।

जबसम्म चन्द्रसुर्जे आकाशमा रहन्छन्।

तबसम्म हुन्छ आफ्नै रातो रगत यो हाम्रो।।

गाईसरि छन् साधु जोजो यहाँ जगत्मा।

सबको सरन बलियो, जङ्गी निसान हाम्रो।।

Poem – A Child Said, What Is The Grass? – Walt Whitman 

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; 

How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it 

is any more than he. 
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful 

green stuff woven. 
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, 

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped, 

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we 

may see and remark, and say Whose? 
Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe 

of the vegetation. 
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, 

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow 

zones, 

Growing among black folks as among white, 

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the

same, I receive them the same. 
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. 
Tenderly will I use you curling grass, 

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, 

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;

It may be you are from old people and from women, and 

from offspring taken soon out of their mother’s laps, 

And here you are the mother’s laps. 
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old 

mothers, 

Darker than the colorless beards of old men, 

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. 
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues! 

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths 

for nothing. 
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men 

and women, 

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring 

taken soon out of their laps. 
What do you think has become of the young and old men? 

What do you think has become of the women and 

children? 
They are alive and well somewhere; 

The smallest sprouts show there is really no death, 

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait 

at the end to arrest it, 

And ceased the moment life appeared. 
All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses, 

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and 

luckier.

Poem – A Boston Ballad, 1854 – Walt Whitman 

TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; 
Here’s a good place at the corner–I must stand and see the show. 
Clear the way there, Jonathan! 

Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon! 

Way for the Federal foot and dragoons–and the apparitions copiously 

tumbling. 
I love to look on the stars and stripes–I hope the fifes will play 

Yankee Doodle. 
How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! 

Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. 
A fog follows–antiques of the same come limping, 

Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless. 10 
Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! 

The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! 

Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! 

Cock’d hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! 

Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men’s shoulders! 
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of 

bare gums? 

Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for 

fire-locks, and level them? 
If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President’s 

marshal; 

If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. 
For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your 

white hair be; 20 

Here gape your great grand-sons–their wives gaze at them from the 

windows, 

See how well dress’d–see how orderly they conduct themselves. 
Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating? 

Is this hour with the living too dead for you? 
Retreat then! Pell-mell! 

To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! 

I do not think you belong here, anyhow. 
But there is one thing that belongs here–shall I tell you what it 

is, gentlemen of Boston? 

I will whisper it to the Mayor–he shall send a committee to England; 

They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the 

royal vault–haste! 30 
Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave- 

clothes, box up his bones for a journey; 

Find a swift Yankee clipper–here is freight for you, black-bellied 

clipper, 

Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward 

Boston bay. 
Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government 

cannon, 

Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard 

it with foot and dragoons. 
This centre-piece for them: 

Look! all orderly citizens–look from the windows, women! 
The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that 

will not stay, 

Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the 

skull. 
You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, 

and more than its own. 
Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan–you are a made man from 

this day; 40 

You are mighty cute–and here is one of your bargains.