শ্রাবণের           ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে পড়ুক ঝরে
তোমারি           সুরটি আমার মুখের 'পরে বুকের 'পরে।
পুরবের            আলোর সাথে পড়ুক প্রাতে দুই নয়ানে-
নিশীথের          অন্ধকারে গভীর ধারে পড়ুক প্রাণে,
নিশিদিন           এই জীবনের সুখের 'পরে দুঃখের 'পরে
শ্রাবণের           ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে পড়ুক ঝরে।
যে শাখায়         ফুল ফোটে না ফল ধরে না একেবারে
তোমার ওই       বাদল-বায়ে দিক জাগায়ে সেই শাখারে।
যা-কিছু            জীর্ণ আমার দীর্ণ আমার জীবনহারা
তাহারি             স্তরে স্তরে পড়ুক ঝরে সুরের ধারা।
নিশিদিন            এই জীবনের তৃষার 'পরে ভুখের 'পরে
শ্রাবণের            ধারার মতো পড়ুক ঝরে পড়ুক ঝরে।

DAYS WERE drawing out as the winter ended, and, in the sun, my dog played in his wild way with the pet deer.
        The crowd going to the market gathered by the fence, and laughed to see the love of these playmates struggle with languages so dissimilar.
The spring was in the air, and the young leaves fluttered like flames. A gleam danced in the deer's dark eyes when she started, bent her neck at the movement of her own shadow, or raised her ears to listen to some whisper in the wind.
        The message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and glimmer abroad in the April sky. It sings of the first ache of youth in the world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known.
And one afternoon, when among the amlak trees the shadow grew grave and sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a meteor in love with death.
        It grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back.
        My dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which seemed to say, 'I do not understand!'
        But who does ever understand?

HER NEIGHBOURS call her dark in the village-but she is a lily to my heart, yes, a lily though not fair. Light came muffled with clouds, when first I saw her in the field; her head was bare, her veil was off, her braided hair hanging loose on her neck. She may be dark as they say in the village, but I have seen her black eyes and am glad.
The pulse of the air boded storm. She rushed out of the hut, when she heard her dappled cow low in dismay. For a moment she turned her large eyes to the clouds, and felt a stir of the coming rain in the sky. I stood at the corner of the ricefield,-if she noticed me, it was known only to her (and perhaps I know it). She is dark as the message of shower in summer, dark as the shade of flowering woodland; she is dark as the longing for unknown love in the wistful night of May.