And the absence of consciousness in this half-slumbering life throws shades of sadness over all the beautiful slope.

Submissive patience, silent hope for something new and more inspiriting are heard even in the cry of the cuckoo, wafted to the river by the wind from the shore.

The melancholy songs sound as though imploring someone for help.
And at times there is in them a ring of despair.

The river answers the songs with sighs.

And the tree-tops shake, lost in meditation.