12
If you would be busy and fill your pitcher，come，O come to my lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands，and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps，they are beating in my heart.
Come，O come to my lake，if you must fill your pitcher.
If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float on the water，come，O come to my lake.
The grassy slope is green，and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come，O come to my lake if you must sit idle.
If you would leave off your play and dive in the water，come，O come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore；the blue water will cover you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in your ears.
Come，O come to my lake，if you would dive in the water.
If you must be mad and leap to your death，come，O come to my lake.
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one，and songs are silence.
Come，O come to my lake，if you would plunge to your death.
13
I asked nothing，only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn，and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands，tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not say a word.It was the bird that sang unseen from the thicket.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road，and the bees came humming one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I stood with my empty can.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips，women came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling，and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.
14
I was walking by the road，I do not know why，when the noonday was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their outstretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road，I do not know why.
The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging tree.
Some one was busy with her work，and her bangles made music in the corner.
I stood before this hut，I know not why.
The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field，and many a mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the river landing-place.
I stopped by this hut，I do not know why.
Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the spring was languorous，and mango blossoms were dropping on the dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood on the landing-step.
I think of that day of breezy March，I do not know why.
Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows，and the villagers are waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps，I do not know why.
15
I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May，the breeze is the breeze of the south.
I lose my way and I wander，I seek what I cannot get，I get what I do not seek.
From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly，it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get，I get what I do not seek.
16
Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes：thus begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March；the sweet smell of henna is in the air；my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers is unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding，revealing and screening again；some smiles and some little shyness，and some sweet useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present；no striving for the impossible；no shadow behind the charm；no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent；we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
17
The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness.
We both live in the same village，and that is our one piece of joy.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden trees.
If they stray into our barley field，I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjana，and Anjanāthey call our river.
My name is known to all the village，and her name is Ranjanā.
Only one field lies between us.
Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.
Flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the stream where we bathe.
Baskets of dried kusm flowers come from their fields to our market.
The name of our village is Khanjanā，and Anjanāthey call our river.
My name is known to all the village，and her name is Ranjanā.
The lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with mango flowers.
When their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in our field.
The stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling look.
The rain that floods their tank makes glad our kadam forest.
The name of our village is Khanjanā，and Anjanāthey call our river.
My name is known to all the village，and her name is Ranjanā.
