Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow, Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago, Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate, From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate. All things made he⁠—Shiva the Preserver, Mahadeo! Mahadeo! he made all⁠— Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, And mother’s heart for sleepy head, O little son of mine!