SHE WAS THE Princess Ajita. And the court poet of King Narayan had never seen her. On the day he recited a new poem to the king he would raise his voice just to that pitch which could be heard by unseen hearers in the screened balcony high above the hall. He sent up his song towards the star-land out of his reach, where, circled with light, the planet who ruled his destiny shone unknown and out of ken.
He would espy some shadow moving behind the veil. A tinkling sound would come to his ear from afar, and would set him dreaming of the ankles whose tiny golden bells sang at each step. Ah, the rosy red tender feet that walked the dust of the earth like God's mercy on the fallen! The poet had placed them on the altar of his heart, where he wove his songs to the tune of those golden bells. Doubt never arose in his mind as to whose shadow it was that moved behind the screen, and whose anklets they were that sang to the time of his beating heart.

শ্মাশান হতে বাপ ফিরে এল।
তখন সাত বছরের ছেলেটি-- গা খোলা, গলায় সোনার তাবিজ--একলা গলির উপরকার জানলার ধারে।

আমি তামাকটা পর্যন্ত খাই নে। আমার এক অভ্রভেদী নেশা আছে, তারই আওতায় অন্য সকল নেশা একেবারে শিকড় পর্যন্ত শুকিয়ে মরে গেছে। সে আমার বই-পড়ার নেশা। আমার জীবনের মন্ত্রটা ছিল এই--
              যাবজ্জীবেৎ নাই-বা জীবেৎ