Mother Vithoba

Ah, Pandurang, if, as men say,
A sea of love thou art,
Then wherefore dost thou so delay?

O take me to thy heart!

I cry for thee as for the hind
The faun makes sore lament.

Nowhere its mother it can find,
With thirst and hunger spent.

With milk of love, ah, suckle me
At thy abounding breast,
O Mother, haste. — In thee, in thee
My sad heart findeth rest.