Dream is it, for uncurbed it took its flight,
And roamed afar, a fancy of the Night.
CHAPTER XIV.
The roses in the gardens of Lehna Singh hung their heads, the sunbeams danced no longer, and the pleasant fountains fell with monotonous plash on sullen pools, where goldfish hid themselves and sad swans floated apart. Moti wept in her bower, and Nature, which sympathizes with the good, grieved around her. The sun-birds flew away, for their gay plumage is not for times of mourning, but the doves lingered and hushed their wooing that they might not offend the disconsolate.
And this was Moti's garden, where happiness and beauty had once their dwelling.
Bloomy roses die,
Wan the petals floating,
Whirling on the breeze's sigh,
Ah, the worms were gloating,