WHILE AGES passed and the bees haunted the summer gardens, the moon smiled to the lilies of the night, the lightnings flashed their fiery kisses to the clouds and fled laughing, the poet stood in a corner, one with the trees and clouds. He kept his heart silent, like a flower, watched through his dreams as does the crescent moon; and wandered like the summer breeze for no purpose.
One April evening, when the moon rose up like a bubble from the depth of the sunset; and one maiden was busy watering the plants; and one feeding her doe, and one making her peacock dance, the poet broke out singing,-'O listen to the secrets of the world. I know that the lily is pale for the moon's love. The lotus draws her veil aside before the morning sun, and the reason is simple if you think. The meaning of the bee's hum in the ear of the early jasmine has escaped the learned, but the poet knows.'
The sun went down in a blaze of blush, the moon loitered behind the trees, and the south wind whispered to the lotus, that the poet was not as simple as he seemed. The maidens and youths clapped their hands and cried,-'The world's secret is out.' They looked into each other's yes and sang-'Let our secret as well be flung into the winds.'

     যতক্ষণ স্থির হয়ে থাকি
          ততক্ষণ জমাইয়া রাখি
              যতকিছু বস্তুভার।
          ততক্ষণ নয়নে আমার
              নিদ্রা নাই;
     ততক্ষণ এ বিশ্বেরে কেটে কেটে খাই
          কীটের মতন;
              ততক্ষণ
          চারি দিকে নেমে নেমে আসে আবরণ;
দুঃখের বোঝাই শুধু বেড়ে যায় নূতন নূতন;
              এ জীবন
     সতর্ক বুদ্ধির ভারে নিমেষে নিমেষে
     বৃদ্ধ হয় সংশয়ের শীতে, পক্ককেশে।
     যখন চলিয়া যাই সে-চলার বেগে
          বিশ্বের আঘাত লেগে
     আবরণ আপনি যে ছিন্ন হয়,
          বেদনার বিচিত্র সঞ্চয়
              হতে থাকে ক্ষয়।
          পুণ্য হই সে-চলার স্নানে,
              চলার অমৃত পানে
                  নবীন যৌবন
              বিকশিয়া ওঠে প্রতিক্ষণ।
              ওগো আমি যাত্রী তাই--
             চিরদিন সম্মুখের পানে চাই।
              কেন মিছে
              আমারে ডাকিস পিছে
          আমি তো মৃত্যুর গুপ্ত প্রেমে
     রব না ঘরের কোণে থেমে।
আমি চিরযৌবনেরে পরাইব মালা,
     হাতে মোর তারি তো বরণডালা।
          ফেলে দিব আর সব ভার,
              বার্ধক্যের স্তূপাকার
                   আয়োজন।
               ওরে মন,
যাত্রার আনন্দগানে পুর্ণ আজি অনন্ত গগন।
     তোর রথে গান গায় বিশ্বকবি,
          গান গায় চন্দ্র তারা রবি।

A PAINTER was selling pictures at the fair; followed by servants, there passed the son of a minister who in youth had cheated this painter's father so that he had died of a broken heart.
        The boy lingered before the pictures and chose one for himself. The painter flung a cloth over it and said he would not sell it.
        After this the boy pined heart-sick till his father came and offered a large price. But the painter kept the picture unsold on his shop-wall and grimly sat before it, saying to himself, 'This is my revenge.'
The sole form this painter's worship took was to trace an image of his god every morning.
        And now he felt these pictures grow daily more different from those he used to paint.
        This troubled him, and he sought in vain for an explanation till one day he started up from work in horror, the eyes of the god he had just drawn were those of the minister, and so were the lips.
        He tore up the picture, crying, 'My revenge has returned on my head!'