In plain words
The poet, of the hill Gōvardhana: The hill the Lord of the immortals plucked up, thrusting his hand down to its base so that it rose, and stood holding, like a keeper who takes up a ball of food and gives it to a bull elephant of dreadful mouth and fierce, raging eyes: that hill, where the clouds go down to the sea, bend low and scoop up its water till the sea-floor lies bare, then rise and stand pouring rain everywhere as if from upturned pots, is Gōvardhana, the victorious umbrella.