English

From the sight of my Lover's bed I come.
The bed of my Lover is the path of the Sat Guru.

Sabda is the lock and Sabda the key, the chain thereof is Sabda too.
The Sabdas are coverlets, the mattress Sabda: the Sabda the sheet of many colours.

In the form of Sabda the Lord is seated: at His feet I lay down my head.
Dulam Das, praise the Lord Jagjivan: thy body by his fire illumined.

The drive it ain't such easy graft that I would recommend
To any gink to ride the drink, an', least of all, a friend.
It's up at four an' sluice a dam or sack a swampy rear
Until the sun has got the run an' baby stars appear.
It ain't no job to recommend
To anybody that's a friend.

I've heard some guy from off the plains who'd punched the cows a spell
Describe the same an' cuss an' claim the cowboy life is hell—
When cattle beller in the night an' fifty head go down,
When bulls stampede an' rivers bleed from trampled banks of brown,

If it shine or if it rain,
Little will I care or know.
Days, like drops upon a pane,
Slip, and join, and go.

At my door's another lad;
Here's his flower in my hair.
If he see me pale and sad,
Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.
Little will I think or say
If he seek another door;
Even if he stay.

Heav'n's! what a sight my startled eyes behold!
'Mid peals of thunder how the lightnings play!
Now dark'ning clouds, in dire confusion roll'd,
Hide the last glimm'rings of departed day.

Now night in tenfold gloom begins her reign;
Wild bounds our bark with all her canvass furl'd.
How howls the madd'ning wind along the main,
The breaking billows o'er the topmast hurl'd,
And fearful yawns, by fits, th' unfathom'd world!

Oh, thou! whom not the heav'n of heav'ns contains,
Who oft has sav'd me from the wat'ry grave,

A wan-cheeked girl with faded eyes
Came stumbling down the crowded car,
Clutching her burden to her breast
As though she held a star.

Roses, I swear it! Red and sweet
And struggling from her pinched white hands,
Roses … like captured hostages
From far and fairy lands!

The thunder of the rushing train
Was like a hush. . . . The flower scent
Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air
Like some dim sacrament—

I saw a garden stretching out
And morning on it like a crown—

The Sisters of the Cross of Shame,
They smile along the night;
Their houses stand with shuttered souls
And painted eyes of light.

Their houses look with scarlet eyes
Upon a world of sin;
And every man cries, “Woe, alas!”
And every man goes in.

The sober Senate meets at noon,
To pass the Woman's Law,
The portly Churchmen vote to stem
The torrent with a straw.

The Sister of the Cross of Shame,
She smiles beneath her cloud—
(She does not laugh till ten o'clock,
And then she laughs too loud.)

Nothing have I achieved, Thus all is wasted, only regrets remain.
I offered not my head, nor drank the drops of love.
Alas, what have I done?
Not with His colour dyed, nor drunken with love's nectar, no song upon my lips.

I found not my love, fulfilled my own desires, and nothing was accomplished.
I, I, am sore dismayed; my hope is all in Thee. Cries Dadu Das.

I asked the roses as they grew
Richer and lovelier in hue,
What made their tints so rich and bright?
They answered, “Looking toward the light.”
Ah, secret dear, said heart of mine,
God meant my life to be like thine,
Radiant with heavenly beauty bright,
By simply looking toward the light.

Thus on a bank, upon a summer's day,
Of some fair stream of East or Western Ind,
When puppies join in wanton play,
Free from the slightest fear of being skinned;
If from that stream, which all so placid flows,
A sly old alligator pokes his nose;
P'rhaps with a wish to taste a slice of cur;
At once the dogs are off upon the spur;
Nor once behind them cast a courtly look,
To compliment the monarch of the brook.

Cool, in the long barn
the wind blows through and the blue-
enamelled and saffron swallow—
barb out of a bow-in-the-clouds—
whips to his clay vase
full of fierce little faces …

I pretend he is not there—or
that I am not here—an effacement,
considering here's naught else then
but dung, perhaps too profound
by a fork's length. But if
I look straight at him, he'll fly.

I wish him no harm. I'd be happy
if once he'd alight on my hand
and I held it all here an instant—
that wind-world he can turn,