Bodiless Lord of love!
Show him once more to me a minute's space,
My Krishna, with the love-look in his face,
And then I come to my own place above;
I will depart and give
All back to Fate and her: I will submit
To thy stern will, and bow myself to it,
Enduring still, though desolate, to live:
If it indeed be life,
Even so resigning, to sit patience-mad,
To feel the zephyrs burn, the sunlight sad,
The peace of holy heaven, a restless strife.
Haho! what words are these?
How can I live and lose him? how not go
Whither love draws me for a soul loved so?
How yet endure such sorrow?—or how cease?
Wind of the Indian wave!
If that thou canst, blow poison here, not nard;
God of the five shafts! shoot thy sharpest hard,
And kill me, Radha,—Radha who forgave!
Or, bitter River,
Yamûn! be Yama's sister! be Death's kin!
Swell thy wave up to me and gulf me in,
Cooling this cruel, burning pain for ever.
Ah! if only visions stir
Grief so passionate in her,
What divine grief will not take,
Spirits in heaven for the sake
Of those who miss love? Oh, be wise!
Mark this story of the skies;
Meditate Govinda ever,
Sitting by the sacred river,
The mystic stream, which o'er his feet
Glides slow, with murmurs low and sweet,
Till none can tell whether those be
Blue lotus-blooms, seen veiledly
Under the wave, or mirrored gems
Reflected from the diadems
Bound on the brows of mighty Gods,
Who lean from out their pure abodes,
And leave their bright felicities
To guide great Krishna to his sides.
(Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled
Vipralabdhavarnane Nagaranarayano.)