_Rishyas._ O radiant one, yes--all is godly well. But whence are you? And whither do you go? I have dwelt only here, and not before Have I beheld so fair a vision fall-- Even from skies where wing the Apsaras.
_Koïl._ I am not fair, O son of Vishwamya,
_Rishyas_ (_quickly_). And I have offered you no laving-water For hands and feet, Nor any fruit and herbs! Will you not sit upon this mat of kusa, Or on this skin of the wild antelope, And let me loose your sandals?--O sweet saint, For saint so bright an one must be!--it will Be dear to touch and tend you! For in this place I have beheld no other-- Only my father, Who is old and mighty In meditations he would have me mind. But you are fair as well. Will you not sit?
_Koïl._ No, pious one, it is not meet for me To touch the holy water--yet I thank you.
_Rishyas._ Not meet for you? O, unto one who is So beautiful, are not all things most meet? Better are you, I know, than all the devas. And tho for but a moment I have seen you, I fain would follow The holy vows you follow. For you I would do all things. When I gaze Upon you all my body is as fire Upon the altar when I sacrifice. Will you not eat or drink?
_Koïl._ Not at your hands. But see, O holy one, here are rare cakes, Brought with me from afar, and here is soma, Sparkling and ready with divinity To lift whoever drinks of it to joy. Drink you with me!
A wine of wonder is it and of wisdom, For now it makes you seem even more fair Than first you were. O let me tend about you, And let me wreathe your brow and limbs with flowers.
[_Takes some and entwines them over her._
_Koïl_ (_trembling_). And you are beautiful. So I will weave Flowers upon you too. And see, and see, O, Rishyas, see, For I will dance to you-- The dance of all the dreamers in the world!
[_Unbinds her body-cloth and begins to dance--slowly at first then more alluringly, as he follows her, marvelling. Then at length she stops close up to him and murmurs_:
Does it not fill your heart, O Rishyas, With longing?
_Rishyas._ Yes, yes, yes. And with desire, I know not why, to lay my lips to yours! Then life, it seems, would burst all ill that binds it.
Oh this is sweeter than all other joys Of holiness that I have ever known. Your voice is like to piping of the koïls That play in spring.