And Araṇyānī, Forest-nymph,
Creaks like a cart at eventide.
Here some one calls his cow to him,
Another there is felling wood;
Who tarries in the forest-glade
Thinks to himself, “I heard a cry.”
Never does Araṇyānī hurt
Unless one goes too near to her:
When she has eaten of sweet fruit
At her own will she goes to rest.