WILLIAM WATERFIELD.
1832—1907.
The Song of Kalindi.
The fresh wind blows from northern snows;
The nights are dank with dew;
A mound of fire the Simal glows;
The young rice shoots anew;
In mornings cool from reedy pool
Up springs the whistling crane;
The wild fowl fly through sunset sky;
The sweet juice fills the cane.
Come, Krishna, from the tyrant proud
How long shall virtue flee?
The lightning loves the evening cloud,
And I love thee.
The breeze moves slow with thick perfume
From every mango grove;
From coral tree to parrot bloom
The black bees questing rove;
The koil wakes the early dawn,
He calls the spring all day;
The jasmine smiles by glade and lawn;
The lake with buds is gay.
Come, Krishna! leave Vaikuntha's bower;
Do thou our refuge be;
The koil loves the mango flower.
And I love thee.
Low from the brink the waters shrink;
The deer all sniff for rain:
The panting cattle search for drink
Cracked glebe and dusty plain;
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