We could not judge it then the talent, the streak of genius she had been endowed with, as generally happens with and remains unacknowledged which is but the way of the world. A belated radio documentary broadcast on her life on the BBC speaks out the same, a poetess listed in Dictionary of Welsh Biography.

Noon is one of those poems of Dorothy Noel Bonarjee (1894-1983) which speak of the art and style of the poetess whose poems found publication with, but the things did not go in her favor, and she remained largely unknown except by a small coterie that she wrote and her poems were brought out. Had a collection been published, it would have been great, but it could not be by her barring the stray college-day and otherwise publications.

In 1912 she enrolled for a degree in French at the University College of Wales, Aberystwyth, but when she was a student, she published poems in the college journal The Dragon and in Welsh Outlook. She was awarded the Bardic Chair at the college Eisteddfod for submitting her beautiful poems under a pseudonym. After this she went to University College, London to be awarded the LL.B. which but never practiced it.

A Bengali Brahmin Christian, but a native of Bareilly, she was a barrister’s daughter. English snobbery, hypocrisy, pride and prejudice, she never admired though she had had a painful tinge of that.

Dorothy Noel Bonarjee was Indian by birth, English by schooling and residency and French by marriage. She wanted to return back, but the choices she made did not allow her, but instead of the marriage broke it, she lived in France.

In the poem, ‘Noon’, the noon she writes about is definitely the noon of England which she describes in this poem. The languid light quivers in the sky and fires the gorse-clad hills to a throbbing gold. The distant spire appears to be pale lights up the skies. A seagull’s cry wakes dim echoes letting to sleep once more. How scenic does it appear to be when we take it up for reading? It really gives us pleasure.

This is a place of dreams, of drowsy fields of moon-filled haunts and yellow sands. of little worn, grey houses by the road. Here dwell in those who with strong and enduring hands untie the knot of life. A description of Wales draped in sun and shower, cold and snow, noon dream and its sweetness dances before us. How is Wales? How the beauty of it? How the mystery of the land rock-strewn and with the seashore being washed? How do the folks go eking out a strategy of survival? How are their enigmas of life? The poetess talks about it all. They have learnt to beat the rough weather, smile with sunshine and to bear the ruffle of the winds and the cold and wintry morns and eves, to mark the noonday dreams knocking at door or peeping through. None but they as a witness to that have fared all through the years bearing the load, remaining still for and undergoing the chill and warmth.

We are taken aback as and when we go through the lines of the poem titled Noon composed by Bonarjee and it is a marvel of imagination and her sweet dreams which she dreams it here.

Noon
 
Noon! deep, languid light, quivers in the sky
And fires the gorse-clad hills to throbbing gold.
One pale distant spire. A seagull's cry
That wakes dim echoes----but to sleep once more
A valley steals down to a rock-strewn shore
And dreams in cool content of things long told;
This is a place of dreams, of drowsy fields
Of moon-filled haunts, and level yellow sands
Of little worn, grey houses by the road
Where dwell those who with strong, enduring hands
Untied the knot of life; whose patience yields
To death alone; who walking 'neath a load
Of sacrifice and silent thought for years
Have found sweet peace for all their bitter tears
By shadowy waysides and bowed, aged hills
Who know the secret, tender night fulfills
The promise of the glowing, fragrant noon.