Classic Poem

Be still, my heart, and listen,
—For sweet and yet acute
I hear the wistful music
—Of Khristna and his flute.
Across the cool, blue evenings,
—Throughout the burning days,
Persuasive and beguiling,
—He plays and plays and plays.

Ah, none may hear such music
—Resistant to its charms,
The household work grows weary,
—And cold the husband's arms.
I must arise and follow,
—To seek, in vain pursuit,
The blueness and the distance,
—The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence,
—The plaintive notes dissolve
Divinely tender secrets
—That none but he can solve.
O Khristna, I am coming,
—I can no more delay.
“My heart has flown to join thee,”
—How shall my footsteps stay?

Beloved, such thoughts have peril;
—The wish is in my mind
That I had fired the jungle,
—And left no leaf behind,—
Burnt all bamboos to ashes,
—And made their music mute,—
To save thee from the magic
—Of Khristna and his flute.