Love
Epigram XVII
Translated by Paul Elmer More (1898) · From A Century of Indian Epigrams (1898)
Love
"Why, pretty fool, art thou so slender grown?
Thou tremblest? and the prize
Of all thy roses, whither is it flown?"
"My Lord, it meaneth nothing," she replies,
And smiles, — but when alone,
Loosing the tears upgathered in her eyes,
Poor fool, she sighs and sighs.
Cite this poem
MLA
Bhartrihari. “Epigram XVII.” Translated by Paul Elmer More. Poetry Codex, poetrycodex.com/poem/bhartrihari/16/.
Chicago
Bhartrihari. “Epigram XVII.” Translated by Paul Elmer More. Poetry Codex. https://poetrycodex.com/poem/bhartrihari/16/.
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