The wind stood up and gave a shout;
He whistled on his fingers, and
Kicked the withered leaves about
And thumped the branches with his hand,
And said he'd kill, and kill, and kill,
And so he will, and so he will.

I, a woman, have a vast estate; true jewels are my portion.
I fashion my nose-ring of Vitthal and the wreath of Hari is on my heart.
My thoughts are a string of pearls and my bangles are Vishnu. Why should I go to the goldsmith?
My fetters are of the Lord of Life, Krishna my gold and silver anklets.
My silver ornaments are Rama and Narayan; my anvat is the one who discerns the heart.
Let me make Purushottam my casket; Trikam the name of the padlock.
Let me make the key of compassion and joy, and in it keep my jewels.

Kanh have I bought; the price he asked I paid;
Some cry, “Too great,” while others jeer, “'Twas small”:
I paid in full, weighed to the utmost grain,
My love, my life, my self, my soul, my all.

With a rope of untwisted thread am I towing a boat upon the ocean.
Where will my God hear? Will He carry even me over?
Like water in goblets of unbaked clay do I slowly waste away.
My soul is in a dizzy whirl. Fain would I reach my home.

By a way I came, but I went not by the way.
While I was yet on the midst of the embankment, with its crazy bridges, the day failed for me.
I looked within my poke and not a cowry was there.
What shall I give for the ferry fee?

Some, though they be sound asleep, are yet awake;
On others, though they be awake, hath slumber fallen.
Some, though they bathe in sacred pools, are yet unclean;
Others though they be full of household cares, are yet free from action.

At night, when we met,
I wished to gaze at her
(She is envied even by the moon!);
And then this fear arose,
" Ah, she is delicate:
She may be crushed
By the burden of my adoring looks! "

Here mossy fountains pour their cooling wave,
And quiet streams their pebbly borders lave,
Here thickest shades inweave a lovely gloom
And blushing flowerets shed a sweet perfume,
Here, dear Nerine, we can spend each day,
And here can wear our cheerful lives away.

Pleasure is
when you understand
all by yourself
a book that people
find impenetrable.

High they raised the mast, and spread the white sail to the zephyr,
Wide before the wind the bellying canvas yielded,
Round the gliding keel roared loud the purple billow,
Over the foaming waves the swift-flying vessel bounded,
She flew, like a hawk, through the sea, and the shores drew nearer and nearer,
The foam curled round the prow as the wind impelled her onward,
Through the silent night she sailed, till morning lit the mountains.