O Soul, thou hast missed all the meaning of life—why hast thou lost it so?
Fool, ceasing to serve the feet of the Lord, thou wanderest blindly like a drunken man.
Cleaving fast to the world's desires, thou hast abandoned all thy worth.
Enslaved by lust and wrath and coveting, to thine own true good thou hast paid no heed.
Wealth, wife and sons will not avail thee, upon whom thou hast relied.
Wouldst thou be freed from sin and suffering from heart-burning and pain,
Then, Girdhar Lal, seek the refuge of Hari, the Guardian of all life in the world.

He in whose heart the name of Hari dwells, he called upon another's name, or did not call. 'Tis one.
He whose mind is dyed in the Lord's dye, he sewed a covering for his body, or did not sew. 'Tis one.
For him in whose house there lives one worthy son, there live ten thousand sons, unworthy sons; or did not live. 'Tis one.
He, before whose door the Ganges flows, he drank the water of a well, or did not drink. 'Tis one.
He, who spoke the word of charity, with out-stretched hand gave arms or did not give. 'Tis one.

An exile, I ascend this tower,
Thinking of home, and with the anguish of the waning year.
The sun has set far beyond heaven's immensity;
The unsullied waters flow on in bleak undulation.
I see a stray cloud of Chin above the mountain trees,
And the wild geese of Tartary flying over the river dunes.
Alas! for ten thousand miles under the dark blue sky
As far as my eyes can reach, there is but one vast gloom for me.

You wore the habit but the secret knew not—amrit you drank and made it poison.
In lust and wrath your life you wasted—with Sadhus lived but sang not Rama.
Your tilak has not cooled your fever, though the thickest rosaries you wore.
Rai Das says, If I win the secret, shall I hold and know Niranjan true?

When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.

Mountains cover the white sun,
And oceans drain the golden river;
But you widen your view three hundred miles
By going up one flight of stairs.

This moment, this chance, O Sádhus: this moment, this chance.

Though one pour out millions, 'twill not return to him again: this precious birth as man.
Without companion, without comrade: each fares forth by himself alone.

Why sleepest thou? Arise, wake early: death shakes thee by the arm,
Says Kabír, Sing Govind's praises: the fair of this world is vanity.

Now I am silent and my name is Tacitus
But in this douce brightness
I have to pause now and then
Putting the moon behind the pine tree
To give myself respite
From her cruel and insinuating lustre.
O moon, scratch-pad of poets,
More meant against than meaning!

This is where your comrade must leave you,
Turning at the foot of these purple mountains. …
When shall we lift our cups again, I wonder,
As we did last night and walk in the moon?
The region is murmuring farewell
To one who was honoured through three reigns;
And back I go now to my river-village,
Into the final solitude.

Oh! clouds about the moon, from whence
She falters forth so debonnair!