The Kinśuk, now the Frosts are fled,—

How glorious with his wreaths of red!

The Bel-trees see, so loved of men,

Hanging their boughs in every glen.

O'erburthened with their fruit and flowers:

A plenteous store of food is ours.

See, Lakshmaṇ, in the leafy trees,

Where'er they make their home.

Down hangs, the work of labouring bees

The ponderous honeycomb.