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my curds to the Mathura fair. . . . How softly the heifers were lowing. . . . I wanted to cry "Who will buy, who will buy These curds that are white as the clouds in the sky When the breezes of Shrawan are blowing?" But my heart was so full of your beauty, Beloved, They laughed as I cried without knowing:
 * Govinda! Govinda!
 * Govinda! Govinda! . ..

How softly the river was flowing!

I carried my pots to the Mathura tide. . . . How gaily the rowers were rowing! . . . My comrades called "Ho! let us dance, let us sing And wear saffron garments to welcome the spring, 68