AT THE SLEEPY village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my holidays came to their end.
        My little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room, watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the door-post strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, 'Father must not go!'
        This was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain.
        At last, when I stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never moved, but sadly looking at me said, 'Father, you must not go!'
        And it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words, 'Father, you must not go!'

II. 98. ritu phagun niyar ani
THE MONTH of March draws near: ah, who will unite me to my Lover?
How shall I find words for the beauty of my Beloved? For He is merged in all beauty.
His colour is in all the pictures of the world, and it bewitches the body and the mind.
Those who know this, know what is this unutterable play of the Spring.
Kabir says: 'Listen to me, brother! there are not many who have found this out.'

YOUR DAYS WILL be full of cares, if you must give me your heart. My house by the cross-roads has its doors open and my mind is absent,-for I sing.
I shall never be made to answer for it, if you must give me your heart. If I pledge my word to you in tunes now, and am too much in earnest to keep it when music is silent, you must forgive me; for the law laid in May is best broken in December.
Do not always keep remembering it, if you must give me your heart. When your eyes sing with love, and your voice ripples with laughter, my answers to your questions will be wild, and not miserly accurate in facts,- they are to be believed for ever and then forgotten for good.