27 No. 27 Under the cascading stream I place my little pitcher and sit all morning, sari-end tucked into waist, dangling my legs on a mossy slippery stone. In an instant the pitcher fills and after that it just overflows. Curling with foam, the water falls, – nothing to do, no hurry at all, – the flowing water has its holiday play in the light of the sun and my own play leaps with it from my brimming mind. The green-forest-enamelled valley’s cup of blue sky. Bubbling over its mountain-bordered rim, falls the murmuring sound. In their dawn sleep the village girls hear its call.
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