বিচলিত কেন মাধবীশাখা,
     মঞ্জরী কাঁপে থরথর!
কোন্‌ কথা তার পাতায় ঢাকা
     চুপি চুপি করে মরমর!

MY WORLD, when I was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving timid stranger.
        Then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and flowers and shells.
        Next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness.
        At length you told me stories about bygone times, with which the present ever longs to meet so as to be rescued from its prison in the moment.

TAKE YOUR holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind.
        My holiday must be taken through yours, finding light in the dance of your eyes, music in your noisy shouts.
        To you autumn brings the true holiday freedom: to me it brings the impossibility of work; for lo! you burst into my room.
        Yes, my holiday is an endless freedom for love to disturb.