আঁখি পানে যবে আঁখি তুলি
দুখ জ্বালা সব যাই ভুলি।
অধরে অধরে পরশিয়া
প্রাণমন উঠে হরষিয়া।
মাথা রাখি যবে ওই বুকে
ডুবে যাই আমি মহা সুখে।
যবে বল তুমি, "ভালবাসি',
শুনে শুধু আঁখিজলে ভাসি।

SUPPOSING I became a champa flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, 'Baby, where are you?' and I should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champa tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading Ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child?
When in the evening you went to the cowshed with the lighted lamp in your hand, I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
'Where have you been, you naughty child? '
'I won't tell you, mother. ' That's what you and I would say then.

শূন্য পাতার অন্তরালে
        লুকিয়ে থাকে বাণী,
কেমন করে আমি তারে
        বাইরে ডেকে আনি।
যখন থাকি অন্যমনে
দেখি তারে হৃদয়কোণে,
যখন ডাকি দেয় সে ফাঁকি--
        পালায় ঘোমটা টানি।