FAR BELOW flowed the Jumna, swift and clear, above frowned the jutting bank.
Hills dark with the woods and scarred with the torrents were gathered around.
Govinda, the great Sikh teacher, sat on the rock reading scriptures, when Raghunath, his disciple, proud of his wealth, came and bowed to him and said, 1 have brought my poor present unworthy of your acceptance.'
Thus saying he displayed before the teacher a pair of gold bangles wrought with costly stones.
The master took up one of them, twirling it round his finger, and the diamonds darted shafts of light.
Suddenly it slipped from his hand and rolled down the bank into the water.
'Alas,' screamed Raghunath and jumped into the stream.
The teacher set his eyes upon his book, and the water held and hid what it stole and went its way.
The daylight faded when Raghunath came back to the teacher tired and dripping.
He panted and said, I can still get it back if you show me where it fell.'
The teacher took up the remaining bangle and throwing it into the water said, It is there.'

TWO LITTLE bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that metaphor, 'Flowers are the footprints of summer.'
        They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be erased by a passing breeze.
Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.

২
আমার লিখন ফুটে পথধারে
          ক্ষণিক কালের ফুলে,
চলিতে চলিতে দেখে যারা তারে
          চলিতে চলিতে ভুলে॥  
The same voice murmurs
          in these desultory lines
which is born in wayside pansies
     letting hasty glances pass by