The rains have come, and frogs are full of glee.
They sing in chorus, in loud, jubilant voices.

Nothing to fear today: no drought, no dearth of worms,
Nor serpent's jaw, nor stones of wanton boys.

Cloud-like, the grasses thicken: in the fields the lush waters stand;
Louder leaps their hour of brief immortality.

They have no necks, but their throats are rich and swollen;
And o, what sleek bodies, what cold gem-like eyes!

Eyes staring upward, fixed in meditation,
Ecstatic, lidless, like rishis' gazing on God.

The rain has ceased, the shadows slant;
Hymn-like floats their singing, on the slow, attentive air.
Now dies the day in silence, but a sombre drone
Perforates the twilight; the thin sky leans to listen.

Darkness and rain: and we are warm in bed:
Yet one unwearied phrase mingles in our sleep-
The final sloka of the mystic chanting,
The croak, croak, croak of the last fanatic frog.