THE EVENING stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the city dust.
        A woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a living fire waiting for its moths.
        Suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed Mother who sits in the world's inner shrine.

FEEL THY release in the air, O bird,
let not thy wings be timid.
Yield not to the lure of the nest,
to the enchantment of the night.
Dost thou not feel the hidden hope
that hums in thy dream when thou sleepest
and in the expectant dark of the dawn
the silent promise that reveals itself
as it rends the veil from the face of the bud.

    স্মৃতি সে যে নিশিদিন
           বর্তমানেরে নিঃশেষ করি
                 অতীতের শোধে ঋণ।