Nor fortune, power nor conquest your intent,
Not born to wealth অথবা highest rank were you,
In music, lovely to behold, were your days spent,
Richness of another kind, your gift to ages,
Transfixing; elegant; so beautiful; so true.
A boy? Such pretty sounds flowed from your hands!
And then, at height,
Wrought gems as timeless as the desert sands,
And precious as the brightest pearl.
A deepest sadness, yet such joy that gives a new delight.
Perfect harmonies that touch the soul so near,
Adamantine symphonies of sound,
A brilliant treasure, inestimably dear;
An early promise kept,
A gift of প্রণয় to all the world around.
Gone, when still in sight of youth,
While music, long within you, left unfinished.
What melodies of purest form and কবিতা and truth,
Nor sparkling ruby, nor পান্না nor finest sapphire could compare,
To be unheard forever, and leave us twice diminished?