His Unseen Bride

Our yaksha is withering away on Rama’s Hill. He misses his young bride. He sees her everywhere:

In the syama-vine I see your slender limbs;

Your glance in the gazelle’s startled eye;

The cool radiance of the moon in your face,

Your tresses in the peacock’s luxuriant train:

Your eyebrows’ graceful curve in the stream’s small waves:

But alas! O cruel one, I see not  

Your whole likeness anywhere in anyone thing.

Meghadūta or the Cloud Messenger by Kālidāsa (5th Century CE)