We have walked in Love's land a little way,
We have learnt his lesson a little while,
And shall we not part at the end of day,
With a sigh, a smile?

A little while in the shine of the sun,
We were twined together, joined lips, forgot
How the shadows fall when the day is done,
And when Love is not.

We have made no vows—there will none be broke,
Our love was free as the wind on the hill,
There was no word said we need wish unspoke,
We have wrought no ill.

So shall we not part at the end of day,
Who have loved and lingered a little while,

Come, Sadhus, sing Hari's praises; come, let us sing Hari's praise.
Sanctify the mind with meditation, the ear with the heavenly waters of love.
Sanctify the tongue with singing praises. Let us sing praises and be joyful.
To sing Hari's praise is a stream of nectar: to praise His love's immortal wine is sweet.
By tasting it we find salvation, by drinking thereof become immortal.
Brother of the poor, the poor's defender, Lord of the helpless, destroyer of their pains.
His Form is truth, is life, is bliss, at His feet lay down your cares.

If it shine or if it rain,
Little will I care or know.
Days, like drops upon a pane,
Slip, and join, and go.

At my door's another lad;
Here's his flower in my hair.
If he see me pale and sad,
Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.
Little will I think or say
If he seek another door;
Even if he stay.

L OVE'S infidel
Whom I adore,
You know too well
That I love you more
By a hundred score
Than mine eyes or heart!
So you'd die before
You'd be called “sweet-heart!”

But if I could seem
To set no store
By your esteem,
Then you'd love me more
By a hundred score
Than your eyes or heart,
And almost implore
To be called “sweet-heart!”

“'Tis the way of love
That who loves the best
The least can he move
His Lady's breast.”…
Ah, would I could test
The proverb's truth
And hate—in jest—

The Evening Star, the lover's star,
The beautiful star comes hither!
He steereth his barque
Through the azure dark,
And brings us the bright blue weather,—Love!
The beautiful bright blue weather.

The birds lie dumb, when the night stars come,
And Silence broods o'er the covers;
But a voice now wakes
In the thorny brakes,
And singeth a song for lovers,—Love!
A sad sweet song for lovers!

It singeth a song, of grief and wrong,
A passionate song for others;
Yet its own sweet pain
Can never be vain,

Well-shadowed landskip, fare-ye-well:
How I have loved you, none can tell,
At least so well
As he that now hates more
Then e'er he loved before.

But my dear nothings, take your leave;
No longer must you me deceive,
Since I perceive
All the deceit, and know
Whence the mistake did grow.

As he whose quicker eye doth trace
A false star shot to a marked place
Does run apace,
And thinking it to catch
A jelly up does snatch,

So our dull souls, tasting delight
Far off, by sense, and appetite,
Think that is right

The Lord accepts the love of all.
With whatsoever mind each serves Him, He knows the inner secrets of the heart.
Sevri tasted the wild plums: she set aside the sweet ones.
He put aside all scruples of defilement and ate them with undoubted mind.
Syama the friend of Sants and Bhagats came to Bidur's house.
His kindness over-flowed in boundless love: freely he tasted of his herbs.
Sent by the Kawravas the Risi came to curse: but with a single leaf all were sated.
Sur Das, the Lord is the treasury of mercy from age to age he has magnified His worshippers.

Since that I may not have
Love on this side the grave,
Let me imagine Love
Since not mine is the bliss
Of “claspt hands and lips that kiss.”
Let me in dreams it prove
What tho' as the years roll
No soul shall melt to my soul,
Let me conceive such thing;
Tho' never shall entwine
Loving arms around mine
Let dreams caresses bring
To live—it is my doom—
Lonely as in a tomb,
This cross on me was laid;
My God, I know not why;
Here in the dark I lie,
Lonely, yet not afraid.
It has seemed good to Thee
Still to withhold the key

You did not come,
And marching Time drew on, and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
--I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,

Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: Once you, a woman, came

Is it to love, to fix the tender gaze,
To hide the timid blush, and steal away—
To shun the busy world, and waste the day
In some rude mountain's solitary maze?
Is it to chant one name in ceaseless lays,
To hear no words that other tongues can say,
To watch the pale moon's melancholy ray,
To chide in fondness, and in folly praise?
Is it to pour the involuntary sigh,
To dream of bliss, and wake new pangs to prove—
To talk, in fancy, with the speaking eye,
Then start with jealousy, and wildly rove?
Is it to loath the light, and wish to die?