WHEN THE weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.
There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.
Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.

SHE WENT away when the night was about to wane.
        My mind tried to console me by saying, 'All is vanity.'
        I felt angry and said, 'That unopened letter with her name on it, and this palm-leaf fan bordered with red silk by her own hands, are they not real?'
        The day passed, and my friend came and said to me, 'Whatever is good is true, and can never perish.'
        'How do you know?' I asked impatiently; 'was not this body good which is now lost to the world?'
As a fretful child hurting its own mother, I tried to wreck all the shelters that ever I had, in and about me, and cried, 'This world is treacherous.'
        Suddenly I felt a voice saying-'Ungrateful!'
I looked out of the window, and a reproach seemed to come from the star-sprinkled night,-'You pour out into the void of my absence your faith in the truth that I came!'

কেন      চোখের জলে ভিজিয়ে দিলেম না
                               শুকনো ধুলো যত?
            কে জানিত আসবে তুমি গো
                               অনাহুতের মতো?
তুমি      পার হয়ে এসেছ মরু,
            নাই যে সেথায় ছায়াতরু,
            পথের দুঃখ দিলেম তোমায়
                               এমন ভাগ্যহত।
তখন     আলসেতে বসে ছিলেম আমি
                               আপন ঘরের ছায়ে,
            জানি নাই যে তোমায় কত ব্যথা
                               বাজবে পায়ে পায়ে।
তবু       ঐ বেদনা আমার বুকে
            বেজেছিল গোপন দুখে,
            দাগ দিয়েছে মর্মে আমার
                               গভীর হৃদয়-ক্ষত।