After the rains the Sharad season came,

(Which if allowed, I’ll call by autumn’s name;

Translating is a task of compromise,

Which upon just equivalents relies.)

What time the clouds exhausted all their store,

The vault of heaven sparkled as before;

The pools were filled with autumn lotus flowers,

A gentle breeze strayed through the leafy bowers;

The turbid streams and floods their force abate,

And once again resume their tranquil state;

Just as a yogin sense objects consumes,

And then his task of penance hard resumes.

The autumn sky was clear, the land was free

Of mire, and water of turbidity,

E’en as those who devotion cultivate,

Whatever their condition or estate,

For Sri Krishna, benignity’s sweet lord,

Auspiciousness will gain as their reward.

Somewhere the mountain torrents flow on by,

Elsewhere the flowing brooks and streams are dry,

Like holy men, who, when they’re in the mood

Give teachings, while at other times they brood.

The flashing fishes in the shallow pools,

Where unaware, like worldly minded fools,

Who know not their inevitable fate,

Just as autumnal pools evaporate.

The farmers now a bumper harvest bring,

And, grateful, celebrate the thanksgiving.

The merchants, students, kings, and holy men

Perform their diverse works and tasks again.

Thus all things worthy come in season due,

For good deeds done, all goodness will ensue.