Would woo with laments her dear lord to her side;
When the rich-laden stems of the Vakul bend low,
’Neath the clustering flowers in the pride of their glow;
In this love-tide of spring, when the spirit is glad,
And the parted—yes, only the parted—are sad,
Thy lover, thy Krishna, is dancing in glee
With troops of young maidens, forgetful of thee.
“Dispensing rich odours, the sweet Madhavi,
With its lover-like wreathings encircle the tree;
And oh! e’en a hermit must yield to the power,