The Sports of Krishna

Beautiful Radha, Jasmine bosomed Radha, All in the Spring-time waited by the wood For Krishna fair, Krishna the all-forgetful,— Krishna with earthly love's false fire consuming – And some one of her maidens sang this song:—

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.

I know how Krishna passes these hours of blue and gold, When parted lovers sigh to meet and greet and closely hold Hand fast in hand; and every branch upon the Valkul-tree Droops downward with a hundred blooms, in every bloom a bee; He is dancing with the dancers to a laughter-moving tone, In the soft awakenings Spring-time, when ‘tis hard to live alone.

When Kroona-flowers, that open at a lover's lightest tread, Break, and, for shame at what they hear, from white blush and modest red; And all the spears on all the boughs of all the Ketuk-glades Seem ready darts to pierce the hearts of wandering youths and maids; ‘Tis there thy Krishna dances till the merry drum is done, All in the sunny Spring-time, when who can live alone?

Where the breaking forth of blossom on the yellow Keshra-sprays Dazzles like Kama’s sceptre, whom all the world obeys; And Patal-buds fill drowsy bees from pink delicious bowls, As Kama’s nectared goblet steeps in languor human souls; There he dances with the dancers, and of Radha thinketh none, All in the warm new Spring-tide, when none will live alone.

Where the breath of waving Madhvi pours incense through the grove, And silken Mogras lull the sense with essences of love,— The silken-soft pale Mogra, whose perfume fine and faint Can melt the coldness of a maid, the sternness of a saint – There dances with those dancers thine other self, thine Own; all in the languorous Spring-time, when non will live alone.

Where—as if warm lips torched sealed eyes and waked them—all in bloom Opens upon the mangoes to feel the sunshine come; And Atimuktas wind their arms of softest green about, Clasping the stems, while calm and clear great Jumna spreadeth out; There dances and there laughs thy Love, with damsels many a one, In the rosy days of Spring-Time, for he will not live alone.

Mark this song of Jayadev! Deep as pearl in ocean-wave Lurketh in its lines a wonder Which the wise alone will ponder: Though it's seemeth of the Earth, Heavenly is the music's birth; Telling darkly of delights In the wood, of wasted nights, Of witless days, and fruitless love, And false pleasures of the grove, And rash passions of the prime, And those dances of Spring-time; Time, which seems so subtle-sweet, Time, which pipes to dancing-feet, Ah! So softly—Ah! So sweetly— That among those wood-maids featly Krishna cannot choose but dance, Letting pass life's greater chance.

Yet the winds that sigh so As they stir the rose Wake a sigh from Krishna Wistfuller than those; All their faint breaths swinging The creepers to and fro Pass like rustling arrows Shot from Kama’s bow: Thus among the dancers What those Zephyrs bring Strikes to Krishna's spirit Like a darted sting.

And as if—far wandered— The traveller should hear The bird of home, the Koil, With nest-notes rich and clear; And there should come one moment A blessed fleeting dream Of the bees among the mangoes Beside his native stream; So flash those sudden yearnings, That sense of a dearer thing, The love and lack of Radha Upon his soul in spring.

Then she, the maid of Radha, spake again; And pointing far away between the leaves Guided her lovely Mistress where to look, And note how Krishna wantoned in the wood Now with this one, now that; his heart, her prize; Panting with foolish passions, and his eyes Beaming with too much love of those fair girls— Fair, but not so as Radha; and she sang:

See, Lady! How thy Krishna passes these idle hours Decked forth in fold of woven gold, and crowded with forest flowers; And scented with sandal, and gay with gems of price— Rubies to mate his laughing lips, and diamonds like his eyes;— In the company of damsels, who dance and sing and play, Lies Krishna, laughing, toying, dreaming his Spring away.

One, with star-blossomed champak wreaths, woos him to rest his head On the dark pillow of her breast so tenderly outspread; And o’er his brow with roses blown she fans a fragrance rare, That falls on the enchanted sense like rain in thirsty air, While the company of damsels wave many an odorous spray, And Krishna, laughing, toying, sighs the soft Spring away.

Another, gazing in his face, sits wistfully apart Searching it with those looks of love that leap from heart to heart; Her eyes—afire with shy desire, veiled by their lashes black— Speak so that Krishna cannot choose but send the message back, In the company of damsels whose bright eyes in a ring Shine round him with soft meanings in the merry light of Spring.

The third one of that dazzling band of dwellers in the wood— Body and bosom panting with the pulse of youthful blood— Leans over him, as in his eyes lightsome thing to speak; And then with leaf-soft lip imprints a kiss below his cheek; A kiss that thrills, and Krishna turns at the silken touch To give it back—Ah, Radha! forgetting thee too much.

And one with the arch smile beckons him away from Jumna’s banks, Where the tall bamboos bristle like spears in battle ranks. And plucks his cloth to make him come into the mango-shade, Where the fruit is ripe and golden, and the milk and cakes are laid: Oh! golden-red the mangoes, and glad the feasts of Spring, And fair the flowers lie upon, and sweet the dancers sing.

Sweetest of all that Temptress who dances for him now With subtle feet which part and meet in the Rasa measures slow, To the chime of silver bangles and the beat of rose-leaf hands, And pipe and lute and cymbal played by the woodland bands; So that wholly passion-laden-eye, ear, sense, soul o'er come— Krishna is there as in the forest; his heart forgets its home.

Krishna, made for heavenly things, 'Mid those woodland singers sings; With those dancers dances featly, Gives back soft embraces sweetly; Smiles on that one, toys with this, Glance for glance, and kiss for kiss; Meets the merry damsels fairly, Plays the round of folly rarely, Lapped in milk-warm Spring-time weather, He and those brown girls together.

And this shadowed earthly love In the twilight of the grove, Dance and song and soft caresses, Meeting looks and tangled tresses, Jayadev the same hath writ, That ye might have gain of it, Sagely its deep sense conceiving And its inner light believing; How that Love—the mighty Master, Lord of all the stars that cluster In the sky, swiftest and slowest, Lord of highest, Lord of lowest— Manifests Himself to mortals, Winning them towards the portals Of his secret house, the gates Of that bright paradise which waits The wise in love. Ah, human creatures! Even your fantasies are teachers. Mighty Love makes sweet in seeming Even Krishna's woodland dreaming; Mighty Love sways all alike From self to selfishness. Oh! Strike From your eyes the veil, and see What love willeth Him to be Who in error, but in grace, Sitteth with that Lotus-face, And those eyes whose rays of heaven Unto phantom-eyes are given; Holding fast of foolish mirth With these visions of the Earth; Leaving Love, and Love imparting; Yet with sense of loss upstarting:—

For the cloud that the veils of the fountains Underneath the sandal mountains, How—as if the sunshine drew All its being to the blue— It takes flight and seeks to rise High into the purer skies, High into the snow and frost, On the shining summits lost! Ah! And how the Koil's strained Smites the traveller with pain,— When the mango blooms in Spring, And "Kahoo", "Kahoo", they sing— Pain of pleasure not yet won, Pain of journeys not yet done Pain of toiling without gaining, Pain ‘mid gladness of still paining.

But may he guide us all to glory high who laughed when the Radha glided, hidden, by, An all among those damsels free and bold Touch Krishna with a soft mouth, kind and cold; And like the others leaning upon his breast, Unlike the others, left their Love’s unrest; And like the others, joining in his song, Or like the others, made him silent long.