Poem II

Out in the country I have little to do with men,
Down the deep lanes the wheels and hooves are few.
Closed is the wattled gate under the broad daylight,
Dusty thoughts of the world enter not my vacant rooms.
At times the villagers go their rustic rounds,
Picking their way through bushy fields.
No untoward words are uttered when we meet,
We talk only of the growth of mulbeery and jute.
The mulberry and jute become taller day by day,
And day by day widens the outlook of my happy lot.
Often I am afraid of the onset of frost and sleet,
What if my cherished hopes be scattered like weeds.