Now let the koil call a hundred thousand times,
A hundred thousand moons may rise!
Now let the arrows-five become a hundred thousand,
And southern breezes sigh their softest!
Now for so long as he leaves me not
So long I deem my body is verily mine,
Vidyāpati says: Your bliss is not little,
Blessing upon your love renewed!
CXXXI.
Rādhā: How shall I tell of my boundless joy, my dear,—
Mādhav abiding day after day in my house?
Just so much as the wicked moon annoyed me before,
Even so much was the joy when I saw my darling's face.
Even if I might fold in my wimple the best of treasures,
I would not let go my beloved into a far-away land:
A shawl in the winter is my beloved, a gentle breeze in the summer,
My dear is a shelter from the storm, and a boat on the river.
Vidyāpati says: Lo, lovely lady,
The grief of the goodly endures not for ever.
CXXXII.
Rādhā: The hurt that the Lord of the Seasons erstwhile did me,
All has departed at sight of Hari's face!
All hopes and desires that were in my heart,
All are achieved in my Lover's kindness.
When I lay in His arms every hair of my body was glad,
In the dew of His lips my grieving melted away:
Fate has fulfilled the hope of all the days of my life,—
From bending my eyes upon Him I know no rest.
Vidyāpati says: There is grief at an end,
No sickness remains when the cure has been found.