Servant：Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!
Queen：The assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Why do you come at this late hour?
Servant：When you have finished with others, that is my time.I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.
Queen ：What can you expect when it is too late?
Servant ：Make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Queen：What folly is this?
Servant ：I will give up my other work.
I throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. But make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Queen ：What will your duties be?
Servant ：The service of your idle days.I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death. I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves.
I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs.
Queen ：What will you have for your reward?
Servant ：To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of askoka petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there.
Queen：Your prayers are granted, my servant, your will be the gardener of my flower garden.
“AH, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey.”
“Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?”
“It is evening,” the poet said,“ and I am listening because someone may call from the village, late though it be.”
“I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for them.”
“Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?”
“The early evening star disappears.”
“The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.”
“Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house in the light of the worn-out moon.”
“If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?”