The king tried to goad his poet with keen glances, silently inciting him
to make a final effort. But Shekhar took no notice, and remained fixed
to his seat.
The king in anger came down from his throne--took off his pearl chain
and put it on Pundarik's head. Everybody in the hall cheered. From the
upper balcony came a slight sound of the movements of rustling robes and
waist-chains hung with golden bells. Shekhar rose from his seat and
left the hall.
It was a dark night of waning moon. The poet Shekhar took down his MSS.
from his shelves and heaped them on the floor. Some of them contained
his earliest writings, which he had almost forgotten. He turned over
the pages, reading passages here and there. They all seemed to him poor
and trivial--mere words and childish rhymes!
One by one he tore his books to fragments, and threw them into a vessel
containing fire, and said : "To thee, to thee, O my beauty, my fire!
Thou hast been burning in my heart all these futile years. If my life
were a piece of gold it would come out of its trial brighter, but it is
a trodden turf of grass, and nothing remains of it but this handful of
ashes.
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