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And still the snowy Himalayas rise
In ancient majesty before our eyes,
Beyond the plains, above the pines,
While through the ever, never changing land
As silently as any native band
That moves at night, the Ganges Shines

Then I hear the song that only India can sing,
Softer than the plumage on a black raven's wing;
High upon a minaret I stand
Upon an old enchanted land,
There's the Maharajah's caravan,
Unfolding like a painted fan,
How small the little race of Man!

See them all parade across the ages,
Armies, Kings and slave from hist'ry's pages,
Played on one of nature's vastest stages.
The turbaned Sikhs and fakirs line the streets,
While holy men in shadowed calm retreats
Pray through the night and watch the stars,
A lonely plane flies off to meet the dawn,
While down below the busy life goes on,
And women crowd the old bazaars;

All are in the song that only India can sing,
Softer than the plumage on a black raven's wing;
Tune the ageless moon and stars were strung by,
Timeless song that only could be sung by
India, the jewel of the East.

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