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At Indra's bidding, pour their streams,

Until with silver cords it seems

That earth is linked with sky.

And look yonder!

As herds of buffaloes the clouds are black;

The winds deny them ease;

They fly on lightning wings and little lack

Of seeming troubled seas.

Smitten with falling drops, the fragrant sod,

Upon whose bosom greenest grasses nod,

Seems pierced with pearls, each pearl an arrowy rod.

Vasantasenā. And here is yet another cloud.

The peacock's shrill-voiced cry

Implores it to draw nigh;

And ardent cranes on high

Embrace it lovingly.

The wistful swans espy

The lotus-sweeter sky;

The darkest colors lie

On heaven clingingly.

Courtier. True. For see!

A thousand lotuses that bloom by night,

A thousand blooming when the day is bright,

Nor close nor ope their eyes to heaven's sight;

There is no night nor day.

The face of heaven, thus shrouded in the night,

Is only for a single instant bright,

When momentary lightning gives us sight;

Else is it dark alway.

Now sleeps the world as still as in the night

Within the house of rain where naught is bright,