"I know where Krishna tarries in these early days of Spring, When every wind from warm Malay brings fragrance on its wing; Brings fragrance stolen far away from thickets of the clove, In Jungles where the bees hum and the Koil flutes her love; He dances with the dancers, at the merry morrice one, All in the budding Spring-time, for ‘tis sad to be alone."