Gita Govinda 4.p3

4.p3

Art thou sick for Radha? she is sad in turn,
Heaven foregoes its blessings, if it holds not thee,
All the cooling fragrance of sandal she doth spurn,
Moonlight makes her mournful with radiance silvery;
Even the southern breeze blown fresh from pearly seas,
Seems to her but tainted by a dolorous brine;
And for thy sake discontented, with a great love overladen,
Her soul comes here beside thee, and sitteth down with thine.