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LETTERS
69
the winter. In that season lyrical fervour is apt to grow cold, and one gets the leisure to write drama.
Bolpur,
31st May 1892.
It is not yet five o'clock, but the light has dawned, there is a delightful breeze, and all the birds in the garden are awake and have started singing. The koel seems beside itself. It is difficult to understand why it should keep on cooing so untiringly. Certainly not to entertain us, nor to distract the pining lover[1]—it must have some personal purpose of its own. But, sadly enough, that purpose never seems to get fulfilled. Yet it is not down-hearted, and its Coo-oo! Coo-oo! keeps going, with now and then an ultra-fervent trill. What can it mean?
And then in the distance there is
- ↑ A favourite conceit of the old Sanskrit poets.
