  Thou art late, O Moon, Late, I have waited thee long. The nightingale's flown to her nest, Sated with song. The champak hath no odour more To pour on the wind as he passeth o'er— But my heart it will not rest. Thou art late, O Love, Late, For the moon is a-wane. The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs, Burns with my pain. The lotus leans her head on the stream— Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream, Dream ere the night-cool dies? Thou art late, O Death, Late, For he did not come! A pariah is my heart, Cast from him—dumb! I cannot cry in the jungle's deep— Is it not time for Nirvana's sleep? O Death, strike with thy dart! |
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