Thy love has melted my body and it has become water. Any antimony that might have remained became the antimony of the bubble's eyes.
The bud may open by the morning breeze which blows in the garden, but the key to the lock of my heart is the smile of my beloved.

Close all open things, O God!
Close the rose,
The throats of flutes and birds.
Close all eyes
To tears not yet fallen.
Close my heart.
Close all open things, O God!

The mother who brought them forth (blind fools!), is she not a woman? And is not the person who reared them a woman? Alas! Why do short-sighted fools pour forth ridicule, crying, " Woman, Woman " ?
What boots it if the child be a son, and what loss if she be a daughter? Happiness, worldly or other-worldly, is conferred by that individual who prospers, son or daughter, it matters not.
The master's heir is no blessing to the family unless he be well-bred and well-behaved too. The daughter who goes forth from one honourable family to another, posterity will call her blessed.

If the virtuous are ruined, the virtuous are still virtuous;
If the wicked are ruined, of what use are they?
If the golden pot is broken, it is still gold;
If the earthen pot is broken, of what use will it be?

Is it not true that black birds in innumerable flight wake up the dawn, sing the praises of the God and greet the coming of the sun?
They sing the words of the great God whose bed is the banyan leaf and who lives in the forest-clad hills.

Utter not, utter not, utter not any word but Radha Krishna.
Do not forsake the sweet taste of sugar and sugar cane and mix it with the bitter lime.
Do not forsake the light of the moon and the sun and set your affection on a glow-worn.
Do not give up diamonds, rubies and jewels, nor weigh real gems against pewter.
Miran says, " The Lord who holds up the mountain has given you an equipoised body. "

Blind one am I, and he that was my staff,
Where hideth he?
In what strange woodland tarriest thou, my hind,
While I, thy dumb fawn, stray lost and seek my home in vain?
Apart from thee what can I do?
How longer hold to life?
O let me meet my mother! Such the prayer
The servant. Jani, pours before the saints.

O glass-blower of time,
Hast blown all shapes at thy fire?
Canst thou no lovelier bell,
No clearer bubble, clear as delight, inflate me —
Worthy to hold such wine
As was never yet trod from the grape,
Since the stars shed their light, since the moon
Troubled the night with her beauty?

Her face is fair and smooth and fine,
Childlike, with secret laughter lit;
Drooping in pity, bright with wit,
A flower, a flame — God fashioned it.
Who sees her tastes the sacred wine.

Who will be naming the wind
That lifts me and leaves me;
Swelleth my budding flame,
Foully bereaves me?
From the land whose forgotten name
Man shall not find,
Blowest thou, wind?