একটা খোঁড়া ঘোড়ার 'পরে
          চড়েছিল চাটুর্জে,পড়ে গিয়ে কী দশা তার
          হয়েছিল হাঁটুর যে!
বলে কেঁদে, 'ব্রাহ্মণেরে
     বইতে ঘোড়া পারল না যে
সইত তাও, মরি আমি
     তার থেকে এই অধিক লাজে--
          লোকের মুখের ঠাট্টা যত
               বইতে হবে টাটুর যে!'

THE FLUTE-SOUND of a holiday music
floats in the air.
It is not the time for me to sit and brood alone.
The shiuli branches shiver
with the thrill of an impending flower-time,
the touch of the dew is over the woodland.
On the fairy web in the forest path
the light and shadow feel each other.
The tall grass sends waves of laughter to the sky in its flowers,
and I gaze upon the horizon, seeking for my song.

I AM LIKE the night to you, little flower.
        I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.
        When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum with bees, and songful with birds.
My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the pitiless mirth of day.