1

So, lady, come with me. This way; this way.
Now all the birds are quiet in their nests;
The hermits lave themselves in limpid streams;
The lit fires twinkle, and their smoke pervades
The sacred grove. The sun, with beams subdued,
Swerving his car from his long course aslant,
Sinks slowly down towards the western mount.

2

. . . . . . Look, look, my lord!
That line of cranes in the clear autumn sky
In steady flight, long, white and lovely, like
Baldeo's outstretched arm!
Yes, friend, I see it.
Now straight, now broken, undulating now,
Now bending like the shape of the Great Bear,
The line is stretched athwart the lower sky
Which is as clear as a snake's skin new sloughed.

Look, look, my lady, at that line of cranes
In steady flight. 'Tis white and lovely like
A wreath of water-lilies. . . .