Krishna, till thou come unto her, faint she lies with love and fear;
Even the jewels of her necklet seem a load too great to bear.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, all the sandal and the flowers
Vex her with their pure perfection though they grow in heavenly bowers.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, fair albeit those bowers may be,
Passion burns her, and love's fire fevers her for lack of thee.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, those divine lids, dark and tender,
Droop like lotus-leaves in rain-storms, dashed and heavy in their splendour.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, that rose-couch which she hath spread
Saddens with its empty place, its double pillow for one head.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, from her palms she will not lift
The dark face hidden deep within them like the moon in cloudy rift.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, angel though she be, thy Love
Sighs and suffers, waits and watches—joyless 'mid those joys above.
Krishna, till them come unto her, with the comfort of thy kiss
Deeper than thy loss, O Krishna! must be loss of Radha's bliss.
Krishna, while thou didst forget her—her, thy life, thy gentle fate—
Wonderful her waiting was, her pity sweet, her patience great.
Krishna, come! 'tis grief untold to grieve her—shame to let her sigh;
Come, for she is sick with love, and thou her only remedy.