Into the annals and chronicles of history something gets it recorded and something not and so is the case with this writer of verse who was a law student in England and whose poems got published in the Welsh journal which we knew it not. Had we known, we would have appreciated and admired Dorothy N. Bonarjee (1894-1983) as a modern poetess and would have called her one of the diaspora dais. But it was not in her fate. The little we know is the Dictionary of Welsh Biography as our source. One from Bareilly, she went to England for her studies and thereafter to France. We could not judge her, but they could, their alumnus. Her poems they kept with for posterity, future criticism. How were the judges, professors, editors who judged them and awarded her even at a younger age as a college student? Is it right to feel, everything is not in awards and recognition? What is in a name? Can wildflowers be not beautiful? Unknown citizens, can their statues be not installed? Scholar gypsies, are they not highly intellectual? At the age of 19 she won the Bardic Chair at the 1914 Eisteddfod of the Univ. of Wales. Even a B.B.C. documentary has come on her.

The poem describes a morning, a fine morning walked together with, joy felt, happiness shared with. A dewy morning, morning fields, it is a beauty to see them and pass by. Dew-laden grass, what to say it about? A world draped in morning silence, the shroud of it, this is for us to share with and so is a world of love felt inwardly, walks walked together with, dreams seen together with. How lovely would it be to feel? With joyfully yours, they go on laughing their way. The young day’s shy caress appears to be cosy and pleasant.  The wind seems to be following with a touch or follow-up. There is sensation around.

But when she kisses the lips, a cry expresses passionately. When we are dead, we shall no longer feel the tide. The morning as long as it is here, we are able to feel the ever freshness, newness of it. But sad spirits tell the tale otherwise. The coming of summer and the breaking of waves into showers, the silken touch of flowers, the bloomy fruit and the smell of good earth, who is it to feel them? They too have their turn to come to.

How will you feel when I shall not be in this world? How shall I when you will not be? If we are not, how will it be the things? 

Morning is such a poem where she intermixes memory, love and affection, sweet remembrance, dream and fancy. It is a love-splashed world; a dew-laden one. How do her feelings lie in interspersed with? The lines under quotes are the beauties of the piece. We do not know whoever the speaker of these, but it adds to the worth and verve of the poetry-piece. There may be the bits of broken relationship and lost love in it. Your hands to touch, your lips to kiss, your quiet friendly eyes, how to feel it them if you are yourself not?

Mornings, memories, kisses and walks form the crux, the core-content of the poem. The exterior of it hints that it is a nature poem and the interior of it that it is a love poem, whatever be it there is a pleasure of going through the lines laced with love, memory and sweet reflection.

Through morning fields of dewiness
On joyful feet we laughing went,
And felt the young day’s shy caress,
And cool  wind-fingers steal
Across our eyes...ineffably content.
But when I kissed your lips, you cried
And passionately said
“When we are dead,
We shall no longer feel
This warm refulgent tide
Thrill our responding bodies so;
But our sad spirits wandering
Will never know
The summer’s languid breath, the tingling mirth
Of waves that break in splendid showers,
The silken touch of flowers
And bloomy fruit, the smell of earth
And oh!”-- you sorrowfully said—
“How I shall miss
(A poor in-sensuous spirit lover-wise)
Your hands to touch, your lips to kiss,
Your quiet friendly eyes.”---
And now you’ re dead.