THE DAY is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute.
HERE IS THY footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reacb down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.
শ্বশুরবাড়ির গ্রাম, নাম তার কুলকাঁটা, যেতে হবে উপেনের-- চাই তাই চুল-ছাঁটা। নাপিত বললে, 'কাঁচি খুঁজে যদি পাই বাঁচি-- ক্ষুর আছে, একেবারে করে দেব মূল-ছাঁটা। জেনো বাবু, তাহলেই বেঁচে যায় ভুল-ছাঁটা।'
