VII

  Here are the stones from which drops of water
  ooze when the moon shines on them.

    Where from the moonstones hung in nets of thread
  Great drops of water trickle in the night—­
    When the moon shines clear and thou, O cloud, art fled—­
  To ease the languors of the women’s plight
  Who lie relaxed and tired in love’s embraces tight.

  VIII

  Here are the magic gardens of heaven.

    Where lovers, rich with hidden wealth untold,
  Wander each day with nymphs for ever young,
    Enjoy the wonders that the gardens hold,
  The Shining Gardens, where the praise is sung
  Of the god of wealth by choirs with love-impassioned tongue.

  IX

    Where sweet nocturnal journeys are betrayed
  At sunrise by the fallen flowers from curls
    That fluttered as they stole along afraid,
  By leaves, by golden lotuses, by pearls,
  By broken necklaces that slipped from winsome girls.

  X

  Here the god of love is not seen, because of
  the presence of his great enemy, Shiva. 
  Yet his absence is not severely felt.

    Where the god of love neglects his bee-strung bow,
  Since Shiva’s friendship decks Kubera’s reign;
    His task is done by clever maids, for lo! 
  Their frowning missile glances, darting plain
  At lover-targets, never pass the mark in vain.

  XI

Here the goddesses have all needful ornaments.  For the Mine of Sentiment declares:  “Women everywhere have four kinds of ornaments—­hair-ornaments, jewels, clothes, cosmetics; anything else is local.”

    Where the wishing-tree yields all that might enhance
  The loveliness of maidens young and sweet: 
    Bright garments, wine that teaches eyes to dance,
  And flowering twigs, and rarest gems discrete,
  And lac-dye fit to stain their pretty lotus-feet.

  XII

  And here is the home of the unhappy Yaksha,

    There, northward from the master’s palace, see
  Our home, whose rainbow-gateway shines afar;
    And near it grows a little coral-tree,
  Bending ’neath many a blossom’s clustered star,
  Loved by my bride as children of adoption are.

  XIII

  with its artificial pool;

    A pool is near, to which an emerald stair
  Leads down, with blooming lotuses of gold
    Whose stalks are polished beryl; resting there,
  The wistful swans are glad when they behold
  Thine image, and forget the lake they loved of old.

  XIV

  its hill of sport, girdled by bright hedges, like
  the dark cloud girdled by the lightening;

    And on the bank, a sapphire-crested hill
  Round which the golden plantain-hedges fit;
    She loves the spot; and while I marvel still
  At thee, my friend, as flashing lightnings flit
  About thine edge, with restless rapture I remember it.