Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
    So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
  Ah, but the world!  The world is quite forsaken,
    For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.

  Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
    Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
  To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
    And fortify against the storm-cloud’s frown?

  The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
    That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
  Is now deception; for if flashing glances
    Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.

  And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
    Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
  Will cease to show the world a circle’s semblance,
    And even in his waxing time, will wane.

  Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
    On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
  Greeted by koil-birds sweet concert holding—­
    Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?

  Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
    To speed the missile when the bow is bent? 
  They buzz about me now with kind intention,
    And mortify the grief which they lament.

  Arise!  Assume again thy radiant beauty! 
    Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught
  Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
    As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.

  Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
    Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
  By fervent, self-surrendering devotion—­
    And memories like these deny me rest.

  Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
    Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm! 
  Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
    Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.

  Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
    Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
  My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded—­
    Return to end the adorning of my feet.

  No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
    A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
  Or e’er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
    Awake in thee an answering desire.

  Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
    For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
  A stain that may not be obliterated,
    If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.

  And how can I perform the last adorning
    Of thy poor body, as befits a wife? 
  So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
    Thy body followed still the spirit’s life.

  I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
    The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
  Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
    Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.

  But where is Spring?  Dear friend, whose art could fashion
    The flowery arrow for thee?  Has the wrath
  Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,
    Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path?”