SHE IS STILL a child, my lord. She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well. She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust. She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not-and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands. When the storm bursts and darkness is over the sky she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror. She is afraid that she may fail in service to you. But with a smile you watch her at her game. You know her. The child sitting in the dust is your destined bride; her play will be stilled and deepened into love.
যেতে যেতে একলা পথে নিবেছে মোর বাতি। ঝড় এসেছে, ওরে, এবার ঝড়কে পেলেম সাথি। আকাশ-কোণে সর্বনেশে ক্ষণে ক্ষণে উঠছে হেসে, প্রলয় আমার কেশে বেশে করছে মাতামাতি। যে পথ দিয়ে যেতেছিলেম ভুলিয়ে দিল তারে, আবার কোথা চলতে হবে গভীর অন্ধকারে। বুঝি বা এই বজ্ররবে নূতন পথের বার্তা কবে, কোন্ পুরীতে গিয়ে তবে প্রভাত হবে রাতি।
YET I CAN never believe that you are lost to us, my king, though our poverty is great, and deep our shame. Your will works behind the veil of despair, and in your own time opens the gate of the impossible. You come, as unto your own house, into the unprepared hall, on the unexpected day. Dark ruins at your touch become like a bud nourishing unseen in its bosom the fruition of fulfilment. Therefore I still have hopenot that the wrecks will be mended, but that a new world will arise.
