আমি ভালোবাসি আমার নদীর বালুচর, শরৎকালে যে নির্জনে চকাচকীর ঘর। যেথায় ফুটে কাশ তটের চারি পাশ, শীতের দিনে বিদেশী সব হাঁসের বসবাস। কচ্ছপেরা ধীরে রৌদ্র পোহায় তীরে, দু-একখানি জেলের ডিঙি সন্ধেবেলায় ভিড়ে। আমি ভালোবাসি আমার নদীর বালুচর, শরৎকালে যে নির্জনে চকাচকীর ঘর। তুমি ভালোবাস তোমার ওই ও পারের বন, যেথায় গাঁথা ঘনচ্ছায়া পাতার আচ্ছাদন। যেথায় বাঁকা গলি নদীতে যায় চলি, দুই ধারে তার বেণুবনের শাখায় গলাগলি। সকাল-সন্ধেবেলা ঘাটে বধূর মেলা, ছেলের দলে ঘাটের জলে ভাসে ভাসায় ভেলা। তুমি ভালোবাস তোমার ওই ও পারের বন, যেথায় গাঁথা ঘনচ্ছায়া পাতার আচ্ছাদন। তোমার আমার মাঝখানেতে একটি বহে নদী, দুই তটেরে একই গান সে শোনায় নিরবধি। আমি শুনি শুয়ে বিজন বালু-ভুঁয়ে, তুমি শোন কাঁখের কলস ঘাটের 'পরে থুয়ে। তুমি তাহার গানে বোঝ একটা মানে, আমার কূলে আরেক অর্থ ঠেকে আমার কানে। তোমার আমার মাঝখানেতে একটি বহে নদী, দুই তটেরে একই গান সে শোনায় নিরবধি।
THE HOUSE, lingering on after its wealth has vanished, stands by the wayside like a madman with a patched rag over his back. Day after day scars it with spiteful scratches, and rainy months leave their fantastic signatures on its bared bricks. In a deserted upper room one of a pair of doors has fallen from rusty hinges; and the other, widowed, bangs day and night to the fitful gusts. One night the sound of women wailing came from that house. They mourned the death of the last son of the family, a boy of eighteen, who earned his living by playing the part of the heroine in a travelling theatre. A few days moreand the house became silent, and all the doors were locked. Only on the north side in the upper room that desolate door would neither drop off to its rest nor be shut, but swung to and fro in the wind like a self-torturing soul. After a time children's voices echo once more through that house. Over the balcony-rail women's clothes are hung in the sun, a bird whistles from a covered cage, and a boy plays with his kite on the terrace. A tenant has come to occupy a few rooms. He earns little and has many children. The tired mother beats them and they rollon thefloor and shriek. A maid-servant of forty drudges through the day, quarrels with her mistress, threatens to, but never leaves. Every day some small repairs are done. Paper is pasted in place of missing panes; gaps in the railings are made good with split bamboo; an empty box keeps the boltless gate shut; old stains vaguely show through new whitewash on the walls. The magnificence of wealth had found a fitting memorial in gaunt desolation; but, lacking sufficient means, they try to hide this with dubious devices, and its dignity is outraged. They have overlooked the deserted room on the north side. And its forlorn door still bangs in the wind, like Despair beating her breast.
BE NOT concerned about her heart, my heart: leave it in the dark. What if her beauty be of the figure and her smile merely of the face? Let me take without question the simple meaning of her glances and be happy. I care not if it be a web of delusion that her arms wind about me, for the web itself is rich and rare, and the deceit can be smiled at and forgotten. Be not concerned about her heart, my heart: be content if the music is true, though the words are not to be believed; enjoy the grace that dances like a lily on the rippling, deceiving surface, whatever may lie beneath.
