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Updated: May 23, 2025
I could hear nothing of it, but she insisted and we followed the music, inaudible to me, up the slopes of the garden that is the foot-hill of the mighty mountain of Mahadeo, and still I could hear nothing. And Vanna told me strange stories of the Apollo of India whom all hearts must adore, even as the herd-girls adored him in his golden youth by Jumna river and in the pastures of Brindaban.
I remember Krishna, the jests he made, who placed his sport in the pastoral dance, Whose brow had a perfect sandal spot, as among dark clouds the disc of the moon, Whose door-like heart was without pity when crushing the bosoms of swelling breasts. Desire even now in my foolish mind for Krishna, For Krishna without me lusting still for the herd-girls.
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