I SHALL GLADLY suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house, if only in some fortunate future I am born a herd boy in the Brinda forest.
The herd boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the courtyard to milk the kine.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the turbulent water tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails outspread, dance in the forest, he watches the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady Ashoka groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the maidens.

THE DARKLY veiled June has come once again
redolent of the rain-soaked earth;
my heart that had grown weary and old
answers to the call of the marching clouds,
overcome with the sudden rush of life's turbulence.
Shadows sweep over the young grass
on the vast lonely meadows;
and my blood surges up with the cry:
It has come, has come to my eyes, to my breast,
to my voice that sings in gladness.

রাত্রি এসে যেথায় মেশে
দিনের পারাবারে
তোমায় আমায় দেখা হল
সেই মোহানার ধারে।
সেইখানেতে সাদায় কালোয়
মিলে গেছে আঁধার-আলোয়,
সেইখানেতে ঢেউ ছুটেছে
এপারে ওইপারে।
নিতল নীল নীরব মাঝে
বাজল গভীর বাণী;
নিকষেতে উঠল ফুটে
সোনার রেখাখানি।
মুখের পানে তাকাতে যাই
দেখি দেখি দেখতে না পাই,
স্বপন সাথে জড়িয়ে জাগা,
কাঁদি আকুল ধারে।