He who has seen my Mother
can he hate his brother?
She loves everyone in the three worlds;
her heart cries for all.
With her there's no difference of caste,
no distinction between high and low;
all are the same.
If she sees a Candala
like Rama with Guhak
she clasps him to her breast.
Ma is our Great Illusion, highest Nature, and
Father our highest Self;
that's why one feels love for all
we feel love for all.
If you worship the Mother
hating her children
she won't accept your puja;
the Ten-Armed One will not.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires:
As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,
Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combined,
Kindle never-dying fires:
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

He loves! If in the bygone years
Thine eyes have ever shed
Tears - bitter, unavailing tears,
For one untimely dead -
If in the eventide of life
Sad thoughts of her arise,
Then let the memory of thy wife
Plead for my boy - he dies!

He dies! If fondly laid aside
In some old cabinet,
Memorials of thy long-dead bride
Lie, dearly treasured yet,
Then let her hallowed bridal dress -
Her little dainty gloves -
Her withered flowers - her faded tress -
Plead for my boy - he loves!

That God should love me is more wonderful
Than that I so imperfectly love him.
My reason is mortality, and dim
Senses; his--oh, insupportable--
Is that he sees me. Even when I pull
Dark thoughts about my head, each vein and limb
Delights him, though remembrance in him, grim
With my worst crimes, should prove me horrible.

And he has terrors that he can release.
But when he looks he loves me; which is why
I wonder; and my wonder must increase
Till more of it shall slay me. Yet I live,
I live; and he has never ceased to give

'Twas in that island summer where
They spin the morning gossamer,
And weave the evening mist,
That, underneath the hawthorn-tree,
I loved my love, and my love loved me,
And there we lay and kissed,
And saw the happy ships upon the yielding sea.


Soft my heart, and warm his wooing,
What we did seemed, while 'twas doing,
Beautiful and wise;
Wiser, fairer, more in tune,
Than all else in that sweet June,
And sinless as the skies
That warmed the willing earth thro' all the languid noon.


Ah that fatal spell!

He did love three things in this world:
Choir chants at vespers, albino peacocks,
And worn, weathered maps of America.
And he did not love children crying,
Or tea served with raspberries,
Or woman's hysteria.
...And I was his wife.

He comes, O bliss!
Fly swiftly, you winds,
You odorous breezes,
And tell him how long
I've waited for this!

O happy that night,
When sunk on your breast,
Your kisses fast falling,
And drunken with love,
My troth I did plight.

Again my sweet friend
Embrace me close.
Yes, heaven does bless us,
And now you have won
My love without end.

He came to read. Two or three books
are open; historians and poets.
But he only read for ten minutes,
and gave them up. He is dozing
on the sofa. He is fully devoted to books
but he is twenty-three years old, and he's very handsome;
and this afternoon love passed
through his ideal flesh, his lips.
Through his flesh which is full of beauty
the heat of love passed;
without any silly shame for the form of the enjoyment.....

Haunting memories of bygone days,
And love songs ringing in my ears!
My heart is all at sea.

The flowers keep saying that nothing remains,
We've to forget the old and ring in the new;
But the unfeeling gardener just counts his flowers!

The setting sun clothes heaven and earth
In a blaze of beauty, wakes up the moon
And the stars, lulling the flowers to sleep.

The caravan of dew leaves the garden at dawn,
With tears streaming down each eye.
But why do they wake up the petals of flowers?

Has your heart turned to stone, love?
The breast-fruits can’t be gifted to anyone just like that!
For by being close to the heart they give pleasure;
They give pain if they are to go away.
What is the connoisseur of love who knows not this secret?Then why do you demand them,
My love, at such an unearthly hour?
Has your heart turned to stone, love?
The breast-fruits can’t be gifted to anyone just like that!

These are the only ornaments of the delicate ones
How can I give them to you O Narsinh’s Lord?