The Bengali Poem , Candl . 
Feel, as they watch their stored provisions fail, 
The ills which all the year the poor assail. 
I trudge to sell my goods from door to door, 
Thankful for refuse rice, nor hope for more. 
The leeches bite me as I wade the plains; 
Would’t were a serpent’s bite to end my pains! 
Down pours the rain in Qravan (4) night and day; 
Bright or dark fortnight, which is which, I pray! 
But I must bear my basket, wet or fine ; 
Bags soaked, a never-ending shower-bath mine. 
And if the rainfall stops a while o’erhead, 
Down come the floods to drown us in our bed. 
In Bhadrapad (5) yet fiercer rainfloods fall; 
Bivers or streams, one deluge drowns them all. 
How can I tell you half our lot of dour ? 
Brahma was angry, so he made us poor. 
Agwin (6) is Candl’s month, and everywhere 
Bams, buffaloes, and goats are slain to her. 
All women put their finest dresses on, 
All except me; poor Phullara alone 
Must rack her brains for food, or famished die; 
With all these victims, who my goods will buy ? 
Karttik (7) begins the winter ; young and old 
Get their warm wraps to shield them from the cold. 
Heaven gives good cloth to all save only me; 
But some deer’s skin my winter cloak must be. 
I crouch to warm my blood with head on knees, 
Or shiver in the sun and slowly freeze. 
Kind Marga^Irs (8) of all the months is best: 
How I can eat my bellyful and rest; 
Indoors or out, there’s food enough, no stint— 
Only the piercing cold, death’s self is in’t. 
I wrap my tatters round me, but they tear, 
And, as I clutch them, split and leave me bare. 
In Paus (9) the winter’s at its height; meanwhile 
All men in various ways the cold beguile ; 
As oil to rub the limbs, or warm attire, 
Strolls in the sun or betel by the fire; 
