Song of Radha the Milkmaid

I carried 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,
And pluck the new buds that are blowing."
But my heart was so full of your music, Beloved,
They mocked when I cried without knowing:
Govinda! Govinda!
Govinda! Govinda! . . .
How gaily the river was flowing!

I carried my gifts to the Mathura shrine. . . .
How brightly the torches were glowing! . . .
I folded my hands at the altars to pray
"O shining Ones guard us by night and by day"—
And loudly the conch shells were blowing.
But my heart was so lost in your worship, Beloved,
They were wroth when I cried without knowing:
Govinda! Govinda!
Govinda! Govinda! . . .
How brightly the river was flowing!