THE WORLD is yours at once and for ever.
And because you have no want, my king, you have no pleasure in your wealth.
It is as though it were naught.
Therefore through slow time you give me what is yours, and
ceaselessly win your kingdom in me.
Day after day you buy your sunrise from my heart, and you find your love carven into the image of my life.

ALL THAT I had I gave to you, keeping but the barest veil of reserve.
        It is so thin that you secretly smile at it and I feel ashamed.
        The gust of the spring breeze sweeps it away unawares, and the flutter of my own heart moves it as the waves move their foam.
        My love, do not grieve if I keep this flimsy mist of distance round me.
        This frail reserve of mine is no mere woman's coyness, but a slender stem on which the flower of my self-surrender bends towards you with reticent grace.

আজ      জ্যোৎস্নারাতে সবাই গেছে বনে
            বসন্তের এই মাতাল সমীরণে।
            যাব না গো যাব না যে,
            থাকব পড়ে ঘরের মাঝে,
  এই নিরালায় রব আপন কোণে।
  যাব না এই মাতাল সমীরণে।
  আমার এ ঘর বহু যতন ক'রে
  ধুতে হবে মুছতে হবে মোরে।
            আমারে যে জাগতে হবে,
            কী জানি সে আসবে কবে
  যদি আমায় পড়ে তাহার মনে।
  যাব না এই মাতাল সমীরণে।