In plain words
The poet, of the hill Gōvardhana: The hill borne up by the one coloured like the great pounding sea, who gulped down in a trice the whole mountain of cooked, heaped rice, the pools of curds and the mire of ghee, and so brought on the enmity of the rain: that hill, where the hill-tribe women catch in a net a round-eyed, wide-eyed fawn that keeps close to its mother and raise it on milk fed from the tip of a cotton wad, is Gōvardhana [where cattle thrive], the victorious umbrella [that let no drop fall].