(Translated from the Bengali of Satyendranath Datta)
I OPENED MY bud when April breathed her last and the summer scorched with kisses the unwilling earth. I came half afraid and half curious, like a mischievous imp peeping at a hermit's cell.
I heard the frightened whispers of the despoiled woodland, and the Kokil gave voice, to the languor of the summer; through the fluttering leaf curtain of my birth-chamber I saw the world grim, grey, and haggard.
Yet boldly I came out strong with the faith of youth, quaffed the fiery wine from the glowing bowl of the sky, and proudly saluted the morning, I, the champa flower, who carry the perfume of the sun in my heart.

THE ODOUR CRIES in the bud, 'Ah me, the day departs, the happy day of spring, and I am a prisoner in petals!'
Do not lose heart, timid thing!
Your bonds will burst, the bud will open into flower, and when you die in the fulness of life, even then the spring will live on.
The odour pants and flutters within the bud, crying, 'Ah me, the hours pass by, yet I do not know where I go, or what it is I seek!'
Do not lose heart, timid thing!
The spring breeze has overheard your desire, the day will not end before you have fulfilled your being.
Dark is the future to her, and the odour cries in despair, 'Ah me, through whose fault is my life so unmeaning?'
'Who can tell me, why I am at all?'
Do not lose heart, timid thing!
The perfect dawn is near when you will mingle your life with all life and know at last your purpose.

LET ONLY THAT little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life-and that is the fetter of thy love.