कोशिश करने वालों की

- हरिवंशराय बच्चन 

लहरों से डर कर नौका पार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।
नन्हीं चींटी जब दाना लेकर चलती है,
चढ़ती दीवारों पर, सौ बार फिसलती है।
मन का विश्वास रगों में साहस भरता है,
चढ़कर गिरना, गिरकर चढ़ना न अखरता है।
आख़िर उसकी मेहनत बेकार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।
डुबकियां सिंधु में गोताखोर लगाता है,
जा जा कर खाली हाथ लौटकर आता है।
मिलते नहीं सहज ही मोती गहरे पानी में,
बढ़ता दुगना उत्साह इसी हैरानी में।
मुट्ठी उसकी खाली हर बार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।
असफलता एक चुनौती है, इसे स्वीकार करो,
क्या कमी रह गई, देखो और सुधार करो।
जब तक न सफल हो, नींद चैन को त्यागो तुम,
संघर्ष का मैदान छोड़ कर मत भागो तुम।
कुछ किये बिना ही जय जय कार नहीं होती,
कोशिश करने वालों की कभी हार नहीं होती।

सतपुड़ा के घने जंगल

 - भवानी प्रसाद मिश्र

सतपुड़ा के घने जंगल।
        नींद मे डूबे हुए से
        ऊँघते अनमने जंगल।

झाड ऊँचे और नीचे,
चुप खड़े हैं आँख मीचे,
घास चुप है, कास चुप है
मूक शाल, पलाश चुप है।
बन सके तो धँसो इनमें,
धँस न पाती हवा जिनमें,
सतपुड़ा के घने जंगल
ऊँघते अनमने जंगल।

                सड़े पत्ते, गले पत्ते,
                हरे पत्ते, जले पत्ते,
                वन्य पथ को ढँक रहे-से
                पंक-दल मे पले पत्ते।
                चलो इन पर चल सको तो,
                दलो इनको दल सको तो,
                ये घिनोने, घने जंगल
                नींद मे डूबे हुए से
                ऊँघते अनमने जंगल।

अटपटी-उलझी लताऐं,
डालियों को खींच खाऐं,
पैर को पकड़ें अचानक,
प्राण को कस लें कपाऐं।
सांप सी काली लताऐं
बला की पाली लताऐं
लताओं के बने जंगल
नींद मे डूबे हुए से
ऊँघते अनमने जंगल।

                मकड़ियों के जाल मुँह पर,
                और सर के बाल मुँह पर
                मच्छरों के दंश वाले,
                दाग काले-लाल मुँह पर,
                वात- झन्झा वहन करते,
                चलो इतना सहन करते,
                कष्ट से ये सने जंगल,
                नींद मे डूबे हुए से
                ऊँघते अनमने जंगल|

अजगरों से भरे जंगल।
अगम, गति से परे जंगल
सात-सात पहाड़ वाले,
बड़े छोटे झाड़ वाले,
शेर वाले बाघ वाले,
गरज और दहाड़ वाले,
कम्प से कनकने जंगल,
नींद मे डूबे हुए से
ऊँघते अनमने जंगल।

                इन वनों के खूब भीतर,
                चार मुर्गे, चार तीतर
                पाल कर निश्चिन्त बैठे,
                विजनवन के बीच बैठे,
                झोंपडी पर फ़ूंस डाले
                गोंड तगड़े और काले।
                जब कि होली पास आती,
                सरसराती घास गाती,
                और महुए से लपकती,
                मत्त करती बास आती,
                गूंज उठते ढोल इनके,
                गीत इनके, बोल इनके

                सतपुड़ा के घने जंगल
                नींद मे डूबे हुए से
                उँघते अनमने जंगल।

जागते अँगड़ाइयों में,
खोह-खड्डों खाइयों में,
घास पागल, कास पागल,
शाल और पलाश पागल,
लता पागल, वात पागल,
डाल पागल, पात पागल
मत्त मुर्गे और तीतर,
इन वनों के खूब भीतर।
क्षितिज तक फ़ैला हुआ सा,
मृत्यु तक मैला हुआ सा,
क्षुब्ध, काली लहर वाला
मथित, उत्थित जहर वाला,
मेरु वाला, शेष वाला
शम्भु और सुरेश वाला
एक सागर जानते हो,
उसे कैसा मानते हो?
ठीक वैसे घने जंगल,
नींद मे डूबे हुए से
ऊँघते अनमने जंगल|

                धँसो इनमें डर नहीं है,
                मौत का यह घर नहीं है,
                उतर कर बहते अनेकों,
                कल-कथा कहते अनेकों,
                नदी, निर्झर और नाले,
                इन वनों ने गोद पाले।
                लाख पंछी सौ हिरन-दल,
                चाँद के कितने किरन दल,
                झूमते बन-फ़ूल, फ़लियाँ,
                खिल रहीं अज्ञात कलियाँ,
                हरित दूर्वा, रक्त किसलय,
                पूत, पावन, पूर्ण रसमय
                सतपुड़ा के घने जंगल,
                लताओं के बने जंगल।

Lochinvar

- Sir Walter Scott

Oh! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’

‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

The Solitary Reaper

- William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

The Eagle: A fragment

- Alfred Tennyson

HE clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Confessions of a born spectator

- Ogden Nash

One infant grows up and becomes a jockey
Another plays basketball or hockey

This one the prize ring hates to enter
That one becomes a tackle or center

I am just glad as glad can be
That I am not them, that they are not me

With all my heart I do admire
Athletes who sweat for fun or hire

Who take the field in gaudy pomp
And maim each other as they romp

My limp and bashful spirit feeds
On other people's heroic deeds

Now A runs ninety yards to score
B knocks the champion to the floor

Crisking vertebrae and spines
Lashes his steed across the line

You'd think my ego it would please
To swap positions with one of these

Well, ego it might be pleased enough
But zealous athletes play so rough

They do not ever in their dealings
Consider one another's feelings

I'm glad that when my struggle begins
'Twixt prudence and ego, prudence wins

When swollen eye meets gnarled first
When snaps the knee, and cracks the wrist

When officialdom demands
Is there a doctor in the stands?

My soul in true thanksgiving speaks
For this modest of physiques

"Athletes, I'll drink to you,
Or eat with you
Or anything except compete with you

Buy tickets worth their radium
To watch you gamble in the stadium

And reassure myself anew
That you are not me and I'm not you

The Tyger

- William Blake

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?