“I asked her, ‘What do you think of the future of women in India?’ ‘It is full of hope and promise’, she replied, and in doing so spontaneously took my hand and pressed it. It touches a Westerner when her Eastern sister does that. It bridges gulfs and knits the human sisterhood together. Like Mirabai of the poet’s intuition she _Wears little hands_ _Such as God makes to hold big destinies._ “Her hands revealed her soul, for in their touch was soft sweetness and strong vitality which still inspire me, and which promise the blessing of her remarkable powers of service to humanity for years to come.”[8] Where is the Indian whose heart does not beat with joy at the mention of Mrs. Sarojini Naidu? Who does not remember with feelings of proud exultation the name of this beloved and revered sister--she who is the symbol of patriotism and a flower of womanly beauty and culture, from whose elevated soul radiate grace, charm, and affection, and who is the object of her countrymen’s adoration? In 1925, in recognition of her manifold virtues, the people of India exalted her to the highest position at their command; she was unanimously elected President of the Indian National Congress.[9] _In the entire history of mankind no woman has been more highly honored by her countrymen than has Mrs. Sarojini Naidu._ Read her poems and you will find the heart of a woman forever seeking the satisfaction of hungry love: “_Hide me in a shrine of roses,_ _Drown me in a wine of roses,_ _Drawn from every fragrant grove!_” Listen to her musical eloquence on the nationalist platform of India, and you will hear the cry of a patriot’s heart groaning under the load of its country’s humiliation from the merciless foreign yoke. “Our arts have degenerated, our literatures are dead, our beautiful industries have perished, our valor is done, our fires are dim, our soul is sinking.”