and agitated brain, the life of memories of and longings for the loved one, the life of flights on imagination's wings, the life of love-concentrated face and steadfast eyes, the life of "sweet unrest,"—has always uttered itself in the language of dhyāna or meditation, in vocabulary divine. And yet nobody would consider a modern love-sick girl as a "seer," a "Rishi" or a devout nun in the sense known to theologists. But she is a "seer" and a devotee in her own way and believes herself to be such. The Rādha of Vidyapati is nothing more than this, a maiden in love's spell.
There is thus nothing "most obviously mystical" in the following modern lines which may stand as the autobigraphy of a Rādha in reverie:
"Would you understand
The language with no word,
The speech of brook and bird
Of waves along the sand?
Would you make your own
The meaning of the leaves.
The song the silence weaves
Where little winds make moan?
Would you know how sweet
The falling of the rill
The calling of the hill
All tunes the days repeat?"
The experiences of Vidyāpati's Rādha were no other than what are suggested in these questions. And what is, after all, the "mystery" here?
"The secret of the ear
Is in the open heart."
Lovers with "open heart" will always know their
