O love, what more shall I, shall Radha speak,

Since mortal words are weak?

In life, in death,

In being and in breath

No other lord but thee can Radha seek.

About thy feet the mighty net is wound

Wherein my soul they bound;

Myself resigned

To servitude my mind;

My heart than thine no sweeter slavery found.

I, Radha, thought; through the three worlds my gaze

I sent in wild amaze;

I was alone.

None called me “Radha!”, none;

I saw no hand to clasp, no friendly face.

I sought my father’s house; my father’s sight

Was empty of delight;

No tender friend

Her loving voice would lend;

My cry came back unanswered from the night.

Therefore to this sweet sanctuary I brought

My chilled and shuddering thought.

Ah, suffer, sweet,

To thy most faultless feet

That I should cling unchid; ah, spurn me not!

Spurn me not, dear, from thy beloved breast,

A woman weak, unblest.

Thus let me cling,

Thus, thus about my king

And thus remain caressing and caressed.

I, Radha, thought; without my life’s sweet lord,

—Strike now thy mightiest chord—

I had no power

To live one simple hour;

His absence slew my soul as with a sword.

If one brief moment steal thee from mine eyes,

My heart within me dies.

As girls who keep

The treasures of the deep,

I string thee round my neck and on my bosom prize.

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