WHILE STEPPING into the carriage she turned her head and threw me a swift glance of farewell. This was her last gift to me. But where can I keep it safe from the trampling hours? Must evening sweep this gleam of anguish away, as it will the last flicker of fire from the sunset? Ought it to be washed off by the rain, as treasured pollens are from heart-broken flowers? Leave kingly glory and the wealth of the rich to death. But may not tears keep ever fresh the memory of a glance flung through a passionate moment? 'Give it to me to keep,' said my song; I never touch kings' glory or the wealth of the rich, but these small things are mine for ever.'
THE BATTLE is over. After strife and struggles the treasure is gathered and stored. Come now, woman, with your golden jar of beauty. Wash away all dust and dirt, fill up all cracks and flaws, make the heap shapely and sound. Come, beautiful woman, with the golden jar on your head. The play is over. I have come to the village and have set up my hearth stone. Now come, woman, carrying your vessel of sacred water; with tranquil smile and devout love, make my home pure. Come, noble woman, with your vessel of sacred water. The morning is over. The sun is fiercely burning. The wandering stranger is seeking shelter. Come, woman, with your full pitcher of sweetness. Open your door and with a garland of welcome ask him in. Come, blissful woman, with your full pitcher of sweetness. The day is over. The time has come to take leave. Come, O woman, with your vessel full of tears. Let your sad eyes shed tender glow on the farewell path and the touch of thy trembling hand make the parting hour full. Come, sad woman, with your vessel of tears. The night is dark; the house is desolate and the bed empty, only the lamp for the last rites is burning. Come, woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance. Open the door of the secret chamber with your unbraided streaming hair and spotless white robe, replenish the lamp of worship. Come, suffering woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance
