Tukaram, Poem 1613

A mother puts ornaments on her child; her love for him knows no limits. I am a poor nurseling of your mercy, O ye my parents, the saints. A mother loves to hear her child’s lisping accents; she begs him take the breast. She sees no faults in the fruit of her womb; he is a blessing to her—so should it be. Her mind moves along in a transport of love; can the Ganges stop its own flood? Tuka says, How generous are the mighty clouds! How little can a bird like me drink!