Bearing a pitcher Lakshmaṇ came,
And as he went the mighty man
Thus to his brother chief began:
“The time is come, to thee more dear
Than all the months that mark the year:
The gracious seasons' joy and pride,
By which the rest are glorified.
A robe of hoary rime is spread
O'er earth, with corn engarlanded.
The streams we loved no longer please,