One night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Aire ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
A cushat crouded o'er me,
That echoed thro' the braes.

How beautiful the Queen of Night, on high
Her way pursuing among scattered clouds,
Where, ever and anon, her head she shrouds
Hidden from view in dense obscurity.
But look, and to the watchful eye
A brightening edge will indicate that soon
We shall behold the struggling Moon
Break forth, — again to walk the clear blue sky.

What heavenly smiles! O Lady mine,
Through my very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear Moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side
And from the headlong streams.

The Crescent-moon, the Star of Love,
Glories of evening, as ye there are seen
With but a span of sky between —
Speak one of you, my doubts remove,
Which is the attendant Page and which the Queen?

If this great world of joy and pain
Revolve in one sure track;
If freedom, set, will rise again,
And virtue, flown, come back;
Woe to the purblind crew who fill
The heart with each day's care;
Nor gain, from past or future, skill
To bear, and to forbear!

In great cities, in vistas of stone we blossom like jasmine, we green like May. On evening walks we rustle like forests, and blossoms fall from us like snow .
In nights, tense like wounds, we glow like glow-worms in the field. And by all our roots we are connected with the farthest and deepest wells of the world .

Father Pan, old Silenus, two-horned fauns, and you, white band of the Goddess of the Pharetra — my reed-pipe has gladdened you with its music and I have brought you offerings each year.
Spare now, I beseech, the purple grape-berries and do not pluck the golden plums with greedy fingers.

BEFORE D EATH

If I should come no more,
Plum-tree beside my door,
Forget not thou the spring,
Faithfully blossoming.

The whole life is lost in the love of ill desires.
Thus three stages of life have passed: the hairs of the head are grown grey.

The breath is choked: it comes no more to the mouth: but is as the Moon in the grip of Ketu.
As he who forsaking Ganga drinks water from his well, are they who forsake Hari and worship demons.

Living in sloth they have forgotten Gobind, and are drowned with all the rest.
O Sur Das, without money without price thou mayest take the name of Rama.

Flowers are shadowed, the palace darkens,
Birds twitter by for a place to perch;
Heaven's ten thousand windows are twinkling,
And nine cloud-terraces are gleaming in the moonlight.
... While I wait for the golden lock to turn,
I hear jade pendants tinkling in the wind. ...
I have a petition to present in the morning,
All night I ask what time it is.