II. 57. janh khelat vasant rituraj
WHERE SPRING, the lord of the seasons, reigneth, there the Unstruck Music sounds of itself,
There the streams of light flow in all directions;
Few are the men who can cross to that shore!
There, where millions of Krishnas stand with hands folded,
Where millions of Vishnus bow their heads,
Where millions of Brahmas are reading the Vedas,
Where millions of Shivas are lost in contemplation,
Where millions of Indras dwell in the sky,
Where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered,
Where millions of Saraswatis, Goddess of Music, play on the vina
There is my Lord self-revealed: and the scent of sandal and flowers dwells in those deeps.

বসন্ত, দাও আনি,
      ফুল জাগাবার বাণী--
তোমার আশায় পাতায় পাতায়
      চলিতেছে কানাকানি।

CHILD, HOW happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
Perhaps you glance at me and think, 'What a stupid game to spoil
your morning with!'
Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud pies.
I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.