One more vermilion rose

From the blossom seller, the painter buys.

‘Upon Meena’s sweet palm,

I will lay this petaled seraph,

This martyred thing of scarlet.

What sublime gifts you give,

Good vendor! Through me to Meena,

Blessed love of mine, when she comes.’

And thus the painter goes

With rose and beloved both,

To guide the mind.

 

Meena presses her ruby lips

Against the fisherman’s mouth.

She leans down

To a fawn of a girl,

‘Darling, greet Father on his return!’

The child embraces the fisherman

In the blushing dusk.

 

One more jangling anklet

From the jeweler, the painter buys.

‘Around Meena’s dainty ankle,

I will wrap this warbling silver,

And its rueful notes 

Will lilt as she steps.

You aid me, good jeweler, in my worship of Meena!

For this band of dulcet tones

Will endow her gait with song.’

And thus the painter goes,

With anklet and beloved both,

To hold the livened heart.

 

Meena dances with the fisherman;

Her exalted eyes meet his own.

No lovelier union 

Betwixt gray and hazel 

Has ever come to pass.

 

‘Deluded man!’ cries the blossom seller.

‘He is indeed,’ agrees the jeweler,

‘Meena’s tracks from the painter’s hearth 

To the fisher’s terrace

Dried long ago.’ 

‘She charmed a lover from her husband’s side!

Her guile unveiled a thousand times

And he too blind with idolatry to notice!’ says the blossom seller.

 

The painter sits at home,

And gazing through the window, cries at once

‘Meena! I see Meena coming!’

Tears, limpid pearls,

Dew of a delight unfettered,

Dress his cheeks as he looks onto placid mist

In the velvet gloaming.