Krishna, till thou come unto her, all the sandal and the flowers Vex her with their pure perfection though they grow in heavenly bowers.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, fair albeit those bowers may be, Passion burns her, and love's fire fevers her for lack of thee.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, those divine lids, dark and tender, Droop like lotus-leaves in rain-storms, dashed and heavy in their splendour.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, that rose-couch which she hath spread Saddens with its empty place, its double pillow for one head.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, from her palms she will not lift The dark face hidden deep within them like the moon in cloudy rift.
Krishna, till thou come unto her, angel though she be, thy Love Sighs and suffers, waits and watches--joyless 'mid those joys above.
Krishna, till them come unto her, with the comfort of thy kiss Deeper than thy loss, O Krishna! must be loss of Radha's bliss.
Krishna, while thou didst forget her--her, thy life, thy gentle fate-- Wonderful her waiting was, her pity sweet, her patience great.
Krishna, come! 'tis grief untold to grieve her--shame to let her sigh; Come, for she is sick with love, and thou her only remedy.
_So she sang, and Jayadeva Prays for all, and prays for ever. That Great Hari may bestow Utmost bliss of loving so On us all;--that one who wore The herdsman's form, and heretofore, To save the shepherd's threatened flock, Up from the earth reared the huge rock-- Bestow it with a gracious hand, Albeit, amid the woodland band, Clinging close in fond caresses Krishna gave them ardent kisses, Taking on his lips divine Earthly stamp and woodland sign._
(_Here ends that Sarga of the Gîta Govinda entitled_ SNIGDHAMADHUSUDANO).
"Say I am here! oh, if she pardons me, Say where I am, and win her softly hither." So Krishna to the maid; and willingly She came again to Radha, and she sang:
(_What follows is to the Music_ DESHIVARÂDÎ _and the Mode_ RUPAKA.)
Low whispers the wind from Malaya Overladen with love; On the hills all the grass is burned yellow; And the trees in the grove Droop with tendrils that mock by their clinging The thoughts of the parted; And there lies, sore-sighing for thee, Thy love, altered-hearted.