If from thee they blow,
Mournful ever by the river
Krishna waits thee so!

When a bird's wing stirs the roses,
When a leaf falls dead,
Twenty times he recomposes
The flower-seat he has spread:
Twenty times, with anxious glances
Seeking thee in vain,
Sighing ever by the river,
Krishna droops again.

Loosen from thy foot the bangle,
Lest its golden bell,
With a tiny, tattling jangle,
Any false tale tell:
If thou fearest that the moonlight
Will thy glad face know,
Draw those dark braids lower, Lady!
But to Krishna go.

Swift and still as lightning's splendour
Let thy beauty come,
Sudden, gracious, dazzling, tender,
To his arms--its home.
Swift as Indra's yellow lightning,
Shining through the night,
Glide to Krishna's lonely bosom,
Take him love and light.

Grant, at last, love's utmost measure,
Giving, give the whole;
Keep back nothing of the treasure
Of thy priceless soul:
Hold with both hands out unto him
Thy chalice, let him drain
The nectar of its dearest draught,
Till not a wish remain.

Only go--the stars are setting,
And thy Krishna grieves;
Doubt and anger quite forgetting,
Hasten through the leaves:
Wherefore didst thou lead him heav'nward
But for this thing's sake?
Comfort him with pity, Radha!
Or his heart must break.

_But while Jayadeva writes
This rare tale of deep delights--
Jayadev, whose heart is given
Unto Hari, Lord in Heaven--
See that ye too, as ye read,
With a glad and humble heed,
Bend your brows before His face,
That ye may have bliss and grace._

And then the Maid, compassionate, sang on--

Lady, most sweet!
For thy coming feet
He listens in the wood, with love sore-tried;
Faintly sighing,
Like one a-dying,
He sends his thoughts afoot to meet his bride.

Ah, silent one!
Sunk is the sun,
The darkness falls as deep as Krishna's sorrow;
The chakor's strain
Is not more vain
Than mine, and soon gray dawn will bring white morrow.

And thine own bliss
Delays by this;
The utmost of