Dear my lo-nay pardon my folly!

To think Dark Night could stretch her arm and touch

The Sun! To think my luckless tongue could hope

To taste the nectar of those noble words!¹

I'm but a peasant girl whilst lo! thou art

Refinement’s pink in whom mingle honour

And high estate. Oh! let that goddess freely sport

In th’ Elysian garden of thy youth! For me

My father’s farm made pure by thy presence

Gives rest enow; and for my worship lo!

There still doth shine on yonder tree’s platform–

The same that many a day to me revealed

The love god’s sight–th’ imprint thy sandals made,

Blest witnesses unto thy feet so soft!

"This be the golden ball, the fairy of

Your garden playeth with," said’st thou one day

When I thee brought a lime, my humble gift,

And saying so that fruit thou didst press hard,

And smiling didst thou shoot a glance against

My trembling bosom full of trem’lous thoughts–,

Oh! let me that one glance for aye cherish

To contemplate with thrills and tears of bliss,

That glance which like an unutter’d command

Bade me hang down my head for maiden shame;

That gold key which could ope the inmost shrine;

That conch-shell which could pour out sacred love! ²

And to this garden camest thou one day

Bright as a vision of the Youthful Spring;

Unusual splendour marked thy dress; thy cheeks

Full glow lent hue unto the evening sun

And as I stood with dazzled eyes gazing

On thee–dost thou recall?–I placed upon

Thy neck a wreath of bakula blooms with both

These hands so rough and hard with bearing of

The water-pots. It was my love’s weakness.

But when thou utt’rest mirthful words of love

To that fair one who round thy neck would place

The garland of her beauteous arms, speak not

Of it to her lest it may cause a pain

Unto that noble sister’s heart.

The cool

Breeze of the evening comes; it comes panting

Eager to bear once more the sacred scent

Of that same wreath which found its utmost bliss

Embracing thee! What shall I say but this?

"Oh! breeze, my humble garland is withered

And gone; unfading is the one offered

By that goddess; go then oh! breeze, and seek

The sacred contact of that wreath ere my

Deep sighs do make thee hot and sad!"

And lo!

That same day’s star doth shine in yon same sky

And vainly waits with eager list’ning ear.

Alas! but he is no more here who made

This garden seem as Brindavan with words

Like music of the flute divine! What if?

It matters naught e’en though this garden be

Forlorn and empty quite, for lo! did not

Thy Radha’s love find fulfilment when she

Upon thy shoulders placed her life’s burthen

Together with that wreath of bakula blooms?

When thou who art my all didst hers become

A needless fear did seize my father dear.

But lord! could I my life thus yield when lo!

My bliss I find dwelling in but a nook

Of th’ world where thou livest, making it bright

With thy deserving wife? Oh! may your life

Wedded shine forth in peaceful happiness!