The caprice of the tender heart, do you know? Is it known to me? The caprice of a heart, where does it take to? Love is a meeting of two hearts, two souls, have we ever tried to know it, feel it? Instead of valuing sacrosanct feelings, paying oblation to St. Valentine, we are after our ends and odds. We are not pure from our within. To love is not to betray anyone. To love is not to break the heart. How long will Mira keep burning in love, burning and melting? How long will Radha keep pining for? Now it is time to know and feel the heart of Romeo and Juliet.

How is Sarojini Naidu’s Caprice? Whose caprice is it? And what does it the word caprice mean? The caprice of love, it is difficult to grapple with. Love gets born as a caprice. When will it the heart change none can guess, what it thinks about. Where may the mood go to? Caprice includes in whim, vagary, crotchet so on to mean it an irrational or unpredictable idea or desire. The caprice of a young heart or a dreamer of love, how to put it before? The idea is just like that going within the heart of Radha. The poem is just like the wild bloom of Gray if to see it otherwise. It also reminds us of A Red Rose of Robert Burns. Break you not the heart of anybody is the answer. Love is like a flower which grows deep into the heart. How to take the heart into confidence? Is love believable and faithful? How to take the steps? There is something of Shakuntala to take to it. Generally, the shepherd loves like to gift the wild blooms to their lovers. But the shepherd girls give flowers to the scholar gypsy in Arnold’s work.

It is a matter of sentiment and feeling. What one feels it for, how to tell it? The heart is full of emotions and feelings.

The heart of a woman, what to say about it? How are its feelings? What does the heart think and take to? It is really very difficult to understand.

Caprice is lovely indeed, consisting of just some lines and divided into two stanzas, to say it all about the caprice of heart and the world so full of deceit, fraud and infidelity. Just like a wild flower you pressed it to your heart and lips. Do not think it that wild flowers are not useful. They do not have any charm. They too can be ravishingly beautiful. A flower you smelt and felt the scent of. How could it be you tore the crimson leaves apart? It was my tender heart. A flower is a flower be it wild or not. Break you not somebody’s heart. Betray you not the heart it loves.

You held a wine-cup and raised to your lips to drink. Lightly you drank a bit and flung the bowl. How could it be? Should anybody do as such? Can love be as such? Sorry to say it was but my soul, my love which but jilted you, flirted you with. Why can it be of her? She is also a girl like others.

The lesson it teaches is, never hurt you anybody. Do not break a lover’s heart. People generally love and cheat on the pathways. It is not right to do. What it disturbs us is the indifferent mood and casual behaviour of the listener to whom the poem is addressed to. The path of life is as such. As such is the path of love full of pricks and thorns. She has also a heart within, a soul to feel it. It is not that she is useless. She is also a human being after all. She is not to be tossed as a wild flower. One should mind that wild blooms are but the beauties of the forest tract.

We do not know how love pains to the eyes and the heart. Tears trickle down the innocent cheeks. Memories and reminiscences weaken the heart.

The caprice of a young heart, of a young girl, the poetess here takes to while delving deep into the realms as for to pursue it. The words used in such as, wild-flower, wine-cup, indifferent lips, idly you, lightly you, etc. add to the poem. ‘Alas! it was my tender heart’ rhymes with ‘Alas! it was my soul’. The word ‘alas’ comes as a shock. Crimson leaves tell of the beauty of the wild bloom. Love is not a wine-cup to drink and fling it away which do you in Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s Madhushala and Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyat.

You held a wild-flower in your finger-tips,
Idly you pressed it to indifferent lips,
Idly you tore its crimson leaves apart...
Alas! it was my tender heart.

You held a wine-cup in your finger-tips,
Lightly you raised it to indifferent lips,
Lightly you drank and flung away the bowl...
Alas! it was my soul.