The Birth of Kumāra 3.57

3.57

tāṃ vīkṣya sarvāvayavānavadyāṃ raterapi hrīpadamādadhānām |
jitendriye śūlini puṣpacāpaḥ svakāryasiddhiṃ punarāśaśaṃse ||

How sad was Káma at the awful sight.
How failed his courage in a swoon of fright!
As near and nearer to the God he came
Whom wildest thought could never hope to tame,
Unconsciously his hands in fear and woe.
Dropped the sweet arrows and his flowery bow.
But Uma came with all her maiden throng.
And Káma's fainting heart again was strong;
Bright flowers of Spring, in every lovely hue,
Around the Lady's form rare beauty threw,
Some clasped her neck like strings of purest pearls,
Some shot their glory through her wavy curls.
Bending her graceful head as half-oppressed
With swelling charms even too richly blest,
Fancy might deem that beautiful young maiden
Some slender tree with its sweet flowers o'erladen.
From time to time her gentle hand replaced
The flowery girdle slipping from her waist:
It seemed that Love could find no place more fair.
So hung his newest, dearest bowstring there.
A greedy bee kept hovering round to sip
The fragrant nectar of her blooming lip—
She closed her eyes in terror of the thief.
And beat him from her with a Lotus leaf.
The angry curl of Reti's lip confessed
The shade of envy that stole o'er her breast,
Through Káma's soul fresh hope and courage flew,
As that sweet vision blessed his eager view—
So bright, so fair, so winning soft was she,
Who could not conquer in such company?