stray birds by rabindranath tagore [translated from bengali to english by the author] new york: the macmillan company, 1916 [frontispiece in color by willy pogány] to t. hara of yokohama 1 stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. and yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. 2 o troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words. 3 the world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover. it becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal. 4 it is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom. 5 the mighty desert is burning for the love of a blade of grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away. 6 if you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars. 7 the sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing water. will you carry the burden of their lameness? 8 her wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night. 9 once we dreamt that we were strangers. we wake up to find that we were dear to each other. 10 sorrow is hushed into peace in my heart like the evening among the silent trees. 11 some unseen fingers, like idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples. 12 "what language is thine, o sea?" "the language of eternal question." "what language is thy answer, o sky? "the language of eternal silence." 13 listen, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes love to you. 14 the mystery of creation is like the darkness of night--it is great. delusions of knowledge are like the fog of the morning. 15 do not seat your love upon a precipice because it is high. 16 i sit at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment, nods to me and goes. 17 these little thoughts are the rustle of leaves; they have their whisper of joy in my mind. 18 what you are you do not see, what you see is your shadow. 19 my wishes are fools, they shout across thy songs, my master. let me but listen. 20 i cannot choose the best. the best chooses me. 21 they throw their shadows before them who carry their lantern on their back. 22 that i exist is a perpetual surprise which is life. 23 "we, the rustling leaves, have a voice that answers the storms, but who are you so silent?" "i am a mere flower." 24 rest belongs to the work as the eyelids to the eyes. 25 man is a born child, his power is the power of growth. 26 god expects answers for the flowers he sends us, not for the sun and the earth. 27 the light that plays, like a naked child, among the green leaves happily knows not that man can lie. 28 o beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror. 29 my heart beats her waves at the shore of the world and writes upon it her signature in tears with the words, "i love thee." 30 "moon, for what do you wait?" "to salute the sun for whom i must make way." 31 the trees come up to my window like the yearning voice of the dumb earth. 32 his own mornings are new surprises to god. 33 life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth by the claims of love. 34 the dry river-bed finds no thanks for its past. 35 the bird wishes it were a cloud. the cloud wishes it were a bird. 36 the waterfall sings, "i find my song, when i find my freedom." 37 i cannot tell why this heart languishes in silence. it is for small needs it never asks, or knows or remembers. 38 woman, when you move about in your household service your limbs sing like a hill stream among its pebbles. 39 the sun goes to cross the western sea, leaving its last salutation to the east. 40 do not blame your food because you have no appetite. 41 the trees, like the longings of the earth, stand a-tiptoe to peep at the heaven. 42 you smiled and talked to me of nothing and i felt that for this i had been waiting long. 43 the fish in the water is silent, the animal on the earth is noisy, the bird in the air is singing, but man has in him the silence of the sea, the noise of the earth and the music of the air. 44 the world rushes on over the strings of the lingering heart making the music of sadness. 45 he has made his weapons his gods. when his weapons win he is defeated himself. 46 god finds himself by creating. 47 shadow, with her veil drawn, follows light in secret meekness, with her silent steps of love. 48 the stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies. 49 i thank thee that i am none of the wheels of power but i am one with the living creatures that are crushed by it. 50 the mind, sharp but not broad, sticks at every point but does not move. 51 your idol is shattered in the dust to prove that god's dust is greater than your idol. 52 man does not reveal himself in his history, he struggles up through it. 53 while the glass lamp rebukes the earthen for calling it cousin, the moon rises, and the glass lamp, with a bland smile, calls her, "my dear, dear sister." 54 like the meeting of the seagulls and the waves we meet and come near. the seagulls fly off, the waves roll away and we depart. 55 my day is done, and i am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening. 56 life is given to us, we earn it by giving it. 57 we come nearest to the great when we are great in humility. 58 the sparrow is sorry for the peacock at the burden of its tail. 59 never be afraid of the moments--thus sings the voice of the everlasting. 60 the hurricane seeks the shortest road by the no-road, and suddenly ends its search in the nowhere. 61 take my wine in my own cup, friend. it loses its wreath of foam when poured into that of others. 62 the perfect decks itself in beauty for the love of the imperfect. 63 god says to man, "i heal you therefore i hurt, love you therefore punish." 64 thank the flame for its light, but do not forget the lampholder standing in the shade with constancy of patience. 65 tiny grass, your steps are small, but you possess the earth under your tread. 66 the infant flower opens its bud and cries, "dear world, please do not fade." 67 god grows weary of great kingdoms, but never of little flowers. 68 wrong cannot afford defeat but right can. 69 "i give my whole water in joy," sings the waterfall, "though little of it is enough for the thirsty." 70 where is the fountain that throws up these flowers in a ceaseless outbreak of ecstasy? 71 the woodcutter's axe begged for its handle from the tree. the tree gave it. 72 in my solitude of heart i feel the sigh of this widowed evening veiled with mist and rain. 73 chastity is a wealth that comes from abundance of love. 74 the mist, like love, plays upon the heart of the hills and brings out surprises of beauty. 75 we read the world wrong and say that it deceives us. 76 the poet wind is out over the sea and the forest to seek his own voice. 77 every child comes with the message that god is not yet discouraged of man. 78 the grass seeks her crowd in the earth. the tree seeks his solitude of the sky. 79 man barricades against himself. 80 your voice, my friend, wanders in my heart, like the muffled sound of the sea among these listening pines. 81 what is this unseen flame of darkness whose sparks are the stars? 82 let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves. 83 he who wants to do good knocks at the gate; he who loves finds the gate open. 84 in death the many becomes one; in life the one becomes many. religion will be one when god is dead. 85 the artist is the lover of nature, therefore he is her slave and her master. 86 "how far are you from me, o fruit?" "i am hidden in your heart, o flower." 87 this longing is for the one who is felt in the dark, but not seen in the day. 88 "you are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, i am the smaller one on its upper side," said the dewdrop to the lake. 89 the scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword. 90 in darkness the one appears as uniform; in the light the one appears as manifold. 91 the great earth makes herself hospitable with the help of the grass. 92 the birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy whose wider circles move slowly among stars. 93 power said to the world, "you are mine. the world kept it prisoner on her throne. love said to the world, "i am thine." the world gave it the freedom of her house. 94 the mist is like the earth's desire. it hides the sun for whom she cries. 95 be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers. 96 the noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the eternal. 97 i think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and i feel the freedom of passing away. 98 the sadness of my soul is her bride's veil. it waits to be lifted in the night. 99 death's stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious. 100 the cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky. the morning crowned it with splendour. 101 the dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers. 102 do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way. 103 roots are the branches down in the earth. branches are roots in the air. 104 the music of the far-away summer flutters around the autumn seeking its former nest. 105 do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket. 106 the touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round the old tree. 107 the echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original. 108 god is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of his special favour. 109 i cast my own shadow upon my path, because i have a lamp that has not been lighted. 110 man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence. 111 that which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is in the endless. 112 the sun has his simple robe of light. the clouds are decked with gorgeousness. 113 the hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars. 114 the road is lonely in its crowd for it is not loved. 115 the power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall, and clouds that pass by. 116 the earth hums to me to-day in the sun, like a woman at her spinng, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue. 117 the grass-blade is worth of the great world where it grows. 118 dream is a wife who must talk. sleep is a husband who silently suffers. 119 the night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, "i am death, your mother. i am to give you fresh birth." 120 i feel, thy beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp. 121 i carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed. 122 dear friend, i feel the silence of your great thoughts of may a deepening eventide on this beach when i listen to these waves. 123 the bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a lift in the air. 124 "in the moon thou sendest thy love letters to me," said the night to the sun. "i leave my answers in tears upon the grass." 125 the great is a born child; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world. 126 not hammerstrokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection. 127 bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. the gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him. 128 to be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth. 129 asks the possible to the impossible, "where is your dwelling place?" "in the dreams of the impotent," comes the answer. 130 if you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out. 131 i hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart,--i cannot see them. 132 leisure in its activity is work. the stillness of the sea stirs in waves. 133 the leaf becomes flower when it loves. the flower becomes fruit when it worships. 134 the roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful. 135 this rainy evening the wind is restless. i look at the swaying branches and ponder over the greatness of all things. 136 storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark, has begun to play and shout. 137 thou raisest thy waves vainly to follow thy lover. o sea, thou lonely bride of the storm. 138 "i am ashamed of my emptiness," said the word to the work. "i know how poor i am when i see you," said the work to the word. 139 time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth. 140 truth in her dress finds facts too tight. in fiction she moves with ease. 141 when i travelled to here and to there, i was tired of thee, o road, but now when thou leadest me to everywhere i am wedded to thee in love. 142 let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life through the dark unknown. 143 woman, with the grace of your fingers you touched my things and order came out like music. 144 one sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years. it sings to me in the night,--"i loved you." 145 the flaming fire warns me off by its own glow. save me from the dying embers hidden under ashes. 146 i have my stars in the sky, but oh for my little lamp unlit in my house. 147 the dust of the dead words clings to thee. wash thy soul with silence. 148 gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death. 149 the world has opened its heart of light in the morning. come out, my heart, with thy love to meet it. 150 my thoughts shimmer with these shimmering leaves and my heart sings with the touch of this sunlight; my life is glad to be floating with all things into the blue of space, into the dark of time. 151 god's great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm. 152 this is a dream in which things are all loose and they oppress. i shall find them gathered in thee when i awake and shall be free. 153 "who is there to take up my duties?" asked the setting sun. "i shall do what i can, my master," said the earthen lamp. 154 by plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower. 155 silence will carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds. 156 the great walks with the small without fear. the middling keeps aloof. 157 the night opens the flowers in secret and allows the day to get thanks. 158 power takes as ingratitude the writhings of its victims. 159 when we rejoice in our fulness, then we can part with our fruits with joy. 160 the raindrops kissed the earth and whispered,--"we are thy homesick children, mother, come back to thee from the heaven." 161 the cobweb pretends to catch dew-drops and catches flies. 162 love! when you come with the burning lamp of pain in your hand, i can see your face and know you as bliss. 163 "the learned say that your lights will one day be no more." said the firefly to the stars. the stars made no answer. 164 in the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to the nest of my silence. 165 thoughts pass in my mind like flocks of ducks in the sky. i hear the voice of their wings. 166 the canal loves to think that rivers exist solely to supply it with water. 167 the world has kissed my soul with its pain, asking for its return in songs. 168 that which oppresses me, is it my soul trying to come out in the open, or the soul of the world knocking at my heart for its entrance? 169 thought feeds itself with its own words and grows. 170 i have dipped the vessel of my heart into this silent hour; it has filled with love. 171 either you have work or you have not. when you have to say, "let us do something," then begins mischief. 172 the sunflower blushed to own the nameless flower as her kin. the sun rose and smiled on it, saying, "are you well, my darling?" 173 "who drives me forward like fate?" "the myself striding on my back." 174 the clouds fill the watercups of the river, hiding themselves in the distant hills. 175 i spill water from my water jar as i walk on my way, very little remains for my home. 176 the water in a vessel is sparkling; the water in the sea is dark. the small truth has words that are clear; the great truth has great silence. 177 your smile was the flowers of your own fields, your talk was the rustle of your own mountain pines, but your heart was the woman that we all know. 178 it is the little things that i leave behind for my loved ones,-great things are for everyone. 179 woman, thou hast encircled the world's heart with the depth of thy tears as the sea has the earth. 180 the sunshine greets me with a smile. the rain, his sad sister, talks to my heart. 181 my flower of the day dropped its petals forgotten. in the evening it ripens into a golden fruit of memory. 182 i am like the road in the night listening to the footfalls of its memories in silence. 183 the evening sky to me is like a window, and a lighted lamp, and a waiting behind it. 184 he who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good. 185 i am the autumn cloud, empty of rain, see my fulness in the field of ripened rice. 186 they hated and killed and men praised them. but god in shame hastens to hide its memory under the green grass. 187 toes are the fingers that have forsaken their past. 188 darkness travels towards light, but blindness towards death. 189 the pet dog suspects the universe for scheming to take its place. 190 sit still my heart, do not raise your dust. let the world find its way to you. 191 the bow whispers to the arrow before it speeds forth--"your freedom is mine." 192 woman, in your laughter you have the music of the fountain of life. 193 a mind all logic is like a knife all blade. it makes the hand bleed that uses it. 194 god loves man's lamp lights better than his own great stars. 195 this world is the world of wild storms kept tame with the music of beauty. 196 "my heart is like the golden casket of thy kiss," said the sunset cloud to the sun. 197 by touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess. 198 the cricket's chirp and the patter of rain come to me through the dark, like the rustle of dreams from my past youth. 199 "i have lost my dewdrop," cries the flower to the morning sky that has lost all its stars. 200 the burning log bursts in flame and cries,--"this is my flower, my death." 201 the wasp thinks that the honey-hive of the neighbouring bees is too small. his neighbours ask him to build one still smaller. 202 "i cannot keep your waves," says the bank to the river. "let me keep your footprints in my heart." 203 the day, with the noise of this little earth, drowns the silence of all worlds. 204 the song feels the infinite in the air, the picture in the earth, the poem in the air and the earth; for its words have meaning that walks and music that soars. 205 when the sun goes down to the west, the east of his morning stands before him in silence. 206 let me not put myself wrongly to my world and set it against me. 207 praise shames me, for i secretly beg for it. 208 let my doing nothing when i have nothing to do become untroubled in its depth of peace like the evening in the seashore when the water is silent. 209 maiden, your simplicity, like the blueness of the lake, reveals your depth of truth. 210 the best does not come alone. it comes with the company of the all. 211 god's right hand is gentle, but terrible is his left hand. 212 my evening came among the alien trees and spoke in a language which my morning stars did not know. 213 night's darkness is a bag that bursts with the gold of the dawn. 214 our desire lends the colours of the rainbow to the mere mists and vapours of life. 215 god waits to win back his own flowers as gifts from man's hands. 216 my sad thoughts tease me asking me their own names. 217 the service of the fruit is precious, the service of the flower is sweet, but let my service be the service of the leaves in its shade of humble devotion. 218 my heart has spread its sails to the idle winds for the shadowy island of anywhere. 219 men are cruel, but man is kind. 220 make me thy cup and let my fulness be for thee and for thine. 221 the storm is like the cry of some god in pain whose love the earth refuses. 222 the world does not leak because death is not a crack. 223 life has become richer by the love that has been lost. 224 my friend, your great heart shone with the sunrise of the east like the snowy summit of a lonely hill in the dawn. 225 the fountain of death makes the still water of life play. 226 those who have everything but thee, my god, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself. 227 the movement of life has its rest in its own music. 228 kicks only raise dust and not crops from the earth. 229 our names are the light that glows on the sea waves at night and then dies without leaving its signature. 230 let him only see the thorns who has eyes to see the rose. 231 set bird's wings with gold and it will never again soar in the sky. 232 the same lotus of our clime blooms here in the alien water with the same sweetness, under another name. 233 in heart's perspective the distance looms large. 234 the moon has her light all over the sky, her dark spots to herself. 235 do not say, "it is morning," and dismiss it with a name of yesterday. see it for the first time as a new-born child that has no name. 236 smoke boasts to the sky, and ashes to the earth, that they are brothers to the fire. 237 the raindrop whispered to the jasmine, "keep me in your heart for ever." the jasmine sighed, "alas," and dropped to the ground. 238 timid thoughts, do not be afraid of me. i am a poet. 239 the dim silence of my mind seems filled with crickets' chirp--the grey twilight of sound. 240 rockets, your insult to the stars follows yourself back to the earth. 241 thou hast led me through my crowded travels of the day to my evening's loneliness. i wait for its meaning through the stillness of the night. 242 this life is the crossing of a sea, where we meet in the same narrow ship. in death we reach the shore and go to our different worlds. 243 the stream of truth flows through its channels of mistakes. 244 my heart is homesick to-day for the one sweet hour across the sea of time. 245 the bird-song is the echo of the morning light back from the earth. 246 "are you too proud to kiss me?" the morning light asks the buttercup. 247 "how may i sing to thee and worship, o sun?" asked the little flower. "by the simple silence of thy purity," answered the sun. 248 man is worse than an animal when he is an animal. 249 dark clouds become heaven's flowers when kissed by light. 250 let not the sword-blade mock its handle for being blunt. 251 the night's silence, like a deep lamp, is burning with the light of its milky way. 252 around the sunny island of life swells day and night death's limitless song of the sea. 253 is not this mountain like a flower, with its petals of hills, drinking the sunlight? 254 the real with its meaning read wrong and emphasis misplaced is the unreal. 255 find your beauty, my heart, from the world's movement, like the boat that has the grace of the wind and the water. 256 the eyes are not proud of their sight but of their eyeglasses. 257 i live in this little world of mine and am afraid to make it the least less. lift me into thy world and let me have the freedom gladly to lose my all. 258 the false can never grow into truth by growing in power. 259 my heart, with its lapping waves of song, longs to caress this green world of the sunny day. 260 wayside grass, love the star, then your dreams will come out in flowers. 261 let your music, like a sword, pierce the noise of the market to its heart. 262 the trembling leaves of this tree touch my heart like the fingers of an infant child. 263 this sadness of my soul is her bride's veil. it waits to be lifted in the night. 264 the little flower lies in the dust. it sought the path of the butterfly. 265 i am in the world of the roads. the night comes. open thy gate, thou world of the home. 266 i have sung the songs of thy day. in the evening let me carry thy lamp through the stormy path. 267 i do not ask thee into the house. come into my infinite loneliness, my lover. 268 death belongs to life as birth does. the walk is in the raising of the foot as in the laying of it down. 269 i have learnt the simple meaning of thy whispers in flowers and sunshine--teach me to know thy words in pain and death. 270 the night's flower was late when the morning kissed her, she shivered and sighed and dropped to the ground. 271 through the sadness of all things i hear the crooning of the eternal mother. 272 i came to your shore as a stranger, i lived in your house as a guest, i leave your door as a friend, my earth. 273 let my thoughts come to you, when i am gone, like the afterglow of sunset at the margin of starry silence. 274 light in my heart the evening star of rest and then let the night whisper to me of love. 275 i am a child in the dark. i stretch my hands through the coverlet of night for thee, mother. 276 the day of work is done. hide my face in your arms, mother. let me dream. 277 the lamp of meeting burns long; it goes out in a moment at the parting. 278 one word keep for me in thy silence, o world, when i am dead, "i have loved." 279 we live in this world when we love it. 280 let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love. 281 i have seen thee as the half-awakened child sees his mother in the dusk of the dawn and then smiles and sleeps again. 282 i shall die again and again to know that life is inexhaustible. 283 while i was passing with the crowd in the road i saw thy smile from the balcony and i sang and forgot all noise. 284 love is life in its fulness like the cup with its wine. 285 they light their own lamps and sing their own words in their temples. but the birds sing thy name in thine own morning light,--for thy name is joy. 286 lead me in the centre of thy silence to fill my heart with songs. 287 let them live who choose in their own hissing world of fireworks. my heart longs for thy stars, my god. 288 love's pain sang round my life like the unplumbed sea, and love's joy sang like birds in its flowering groves. 289 put out the lamp when thou wishest. i shall know thy darkness and shall love it. 290 when i stand before thee at the day's end thou shalt see my scars and know that i had my wounds and also my healing. 291 some day i shall sing to thee in the sunrise of some other world, "i have seen thee before in the light of the earth, in the love of man." 292 clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky. 293 truth raises against itself the storm that scatters its seeds broadcast. 294 the storm of the last night has crowned this morning with golden peace. 295 truth seems to come with its final word; and the final word gives birth to its next. 296 blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth. 297 sweetness of thy name fills my heart when i forget mine--like thy morning sun when the mist is melted. 298 the silent night has the beauty of the mother and the clamorous day of the child. 299 the world loved man when he smiled. the world became afraid of him when he laughed. 300 god waits for man to regain his childhood in wisdom. 301 let me feel this world as thy love taking form, then my love will help it. 302 thy sunshine smiles upon the winter days of my heart, never doubting of its spring flowers. 303 god kisses the finite in his love and man the infinite. 304 thou crossest desert lands of barren years to reach the moment of fulfilment. 305 god's silence ripens man's thoughts into speech. 306 thou wilt find, eternal traveller, marks of thy footsteps across my songs. 307 let me not shame thee, father, who displayest thy glory in thy children. 308 cheerless is the day, the light under frowning clouds is like a punished child with traces of tears on its pale cheeks, and the cry of the wind is like the cry of a wounded world. but i know i am travelling to meet my friend. 309 to-night there is a stir among the palm leaves, a swell in the sea, full moon, like the heart throb of the world. from what unknown sky hast thou carried in thy silence the aching secret of love? 310 i dream of a star, an island of light, where i shall be born and in the depth of its quickening leisure my life will ripen its works like the ricefield in the autumn sun. 311 the smell of the wet earth in the rain rises like a great chant of praise from the voiceless multitude of the insignificant. 312 that love can ever lose is a fact that we cannot accept as truth. 313 we shall know some day that death can never rob us of that which our soul has gained, for her gains are one with herself. 314 god comes to me in the dusk of my evening with the flowers from my past kept fresh in his basket. 315 when all the strings of my life will be tuned, my master, then at every touch of thine will come out the music of love. 316 let me live truly, my lord, so that death to me become true. 317 man's history is waiting in patience for the triumph of the insulted man. 318 i feel thy gaze upon my heart this moment like the sunny silence of the morning upon the lonely field whose harvest is over. 319 i long for the island of songs across this heaving sea of shouts. 320 the prelude of the night is commenced in the music of the sunset, in its solemn hymn to the ineffable dark. 321 i have scaled the peak and found no shelter in fame's bleak and barren height. lead me, my guide, before the light fades, into the valley of quiet where life's harvest mellows into golden wisdom. 322 things look phantastic in this dimness of the dusk--the spires whose bases are lost in the dark and tree tops like blots of ink. i shall wait for the morning and wake up to see thy city in the light. 323 i have suffered and despaired and known death and i am glad that i am in this great world. 324 there are tracts in my life that are bare and silent. they are the open spaces where my busy days had their light and air. 325 release me from my unfulfilled past clinging to me from behind making death difficult. 326 let this be my last word, that i trust in thy love. the crescent moon by rabindranath tagore translated from the original bengali by the author with eight illustrations in colour london and new york: macmillan and company, 1913 to t. sturge moore [frontispiece: from a drawing by nandalall bose--see cbeach.jpg] contents the home on the seashore the source baby's way the unheeded pageant sleep-stealer the beginning baby's world when and why defamation the judge playthings the astronomer clouds and waves the champa flower fairyland the land of the exile the rainy day paper boats the sailor the further bank the flower-school the merchant sympathy vocation superior the little big man twelve o'clock authorship the wicked postman the hero the end the recall the first jasmines the banyan tree benediction the gift my song the child-angel the last bargain list of coloured illustrations frontispiece the home the beginning fairyland paper boats the merchant the hero benediction index of the first lines ah, these jasmines ah, who was it coloured that little frock bless this little heart child, how happy you are sitting in the dust come and hire me day by day i float my paper boats i am small because i am a little child if baby only wanted to, he could fly if i were only a little puppy if people came to know where my king's palace is i long to go over there imagine, mother i only said, "when in the evening" i paced alone it is time for me to go, mother i want to give you something, my child i wish i could take a quiet corner mother, i do want to leave off my lessons mother, let us imagine we are travelling mother, the folk who live up in the clouds mother, the light has grown grey mother, your baby is silly on the seashore of endless worlds o you shaggy-headed banyan tree say of him what you please sullen clouds are gathering supposing i became a _champa_ flower the boat of the boatman madhu the night was dark when we went away the sleep that flits on baby's eyes they clamour and fight this song of mine when i bring you coloured toys when storm clouds when the gong sounds ten where have i come from who stole sleep from baby's eyes why are those tears in your eyes, my child why do you sit there on the floor you say that father writes a lot of books [illustration: the home--from a drawing by nandalall bose--see chome.jpg] the home i paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was hiding its last gold like a miser. the daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent. suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the sky. he traversed the dark unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of the evening. his village home lay there at the end of the waste land, beyond the sugar-cane field, hidden among the shadows of the banana and the slender areca palm, the cocoa-nut and the dark green jack-fruit trees. i stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight, and saw spread before me the darkened earth surrounding with her arms countless homes furnished with cradles and beds, mothers' hearts and evening lamps, and young lives glad with a gladness that knows nothing of its value for the world. on the seashore on the seashore of endless worlds children meet. the infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. on the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. they build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. with withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. children have their play on the seashore of worlds. they know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. the sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. the sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. on the seashore of endless worlds children meet. tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. on the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. the source the sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where it comes? yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. from there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does anybody know where it was born? yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. the sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does anybody know where it was hidden so long? yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. baby's way if baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment. it is not for nothing that he does not leave us. he loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever bear to lose sight of her. baby knows all manner of wise words, though few on earth can understand their meaning. it is not for nothing that he never wants to speak. the one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from mother's lips. that is why he looks so innocent. baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar on to this earth. it is not for nothing he came in such a disguise. this dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love. baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny crescent moon. it was not for nothing he gave up his freedom. he knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught and pressed in her dear arms. baby never knew how to cry. he dwelt in the land of perfect bliss. it is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears. though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles weave the double bond of pity and love. the unheeded pageant ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered your sweet limbs with that little red tunic? you have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard, tottering and tumbling as you run. but who was it coloured that little frock, my child? what is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud? mother smiles at you standing on the threshold. she claps her hands and her bracelets jingle, and you dance with your bamboo stick in your hand like a tiny little shepherd. but what is it makes you laugh, my little life-bud? o beggar, what do you beg for, clinging to your mother's neck with both your hands? o greedy heart, shall i pluck the world like a fruit from the sky to place it on your little rosy palm? o beggar, what are you begging for? the wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells. the sun smiles and watches your toilet. the sky watches over you when you sleep in your mother's arms, and the morning comes tiptoe to your bed and kisses your eyes. the wind carries away in glee the tinkling of your anklet bells. the fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying through the twilight sky. the world-mother keeps her seat by you in your mother's heart. he who plays his music to the stars is standing at your window with his flute. and the fairy mistress of dreams is coming towards you, flying through the twilight sky. sleep-stealer who stole sleep from baby's eyes? i must know. clasping her pitcher to her waist mother went to fetch water from the village near by. it was noon. the children's playtime was over; the ducks in the pond were silent. the shepherd boy lay asleep under the shadow of the _banyan_ tree. the crane stood grave and still in the swamp near the mango grove. in the meanwhile the sleep-stealer came and, snatching sleep from baby's eyes, flew away. when mother came back she found baby travelling the room over on all fours. who stole sleep from our baby's eyes? i must know. i must find her and chain her up. i must look into that dark cave, where, through boulders and scowling stones, trickles a tiny stream. i must search in the drowsy shade of the _bakula_ grove, where pigeons coo in their corner, and fairies' anklets tinkle in the stillness of starry nights. in the evening i will peep into the whispering silence of the bamboo forest, where fireflies squander their light, and will ask every creature i meet, "can anybody tell me where the sleep-stealer lives?" who stole sleep from baby's eyes? i must know. shouldn't i give her a good lesson if i could only catch her! i would raid her nest and see where she hoards all her stolen sleep. i would plunder it all, and carry it home. i would bind her two wings securely, set her on the bank of the river, and then let her play at fishing with a reed among the rushes and water-lilies. when the marketing is over in the evening, and the village children sit in their mothers' laps, then the night birds will mockingly din her ears with: "whose sleep will you steal now?" [illustration: from a drawing by asit kumar haldar--see cbegin.jpg] the beginning "where have i come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked its mother. she answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast,-"you were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling. you were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with clay i made the image of my god every morning, i made and unmade you then. you were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship i worshipped you. in all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in the life of my mother you have lived. in the lap of the deathless spirit who rules our home you have been nursed for ages. when in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered as a fragrance about it. your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow in the sky before the sunrise. heaven's first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you have stranded on my heart. as i gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to all have become mine. for fear of losing you i hold you tight to my breast. what magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?" baby's world i wish i could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very own world. i know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows. those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with trays crowded with bright toys. i wish i could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds; where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history; where reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and truth sets fact free from its fetters. when and why when i bring you coloured toys, my child, i understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints--when i give coloured toys to you, my child. when i sing to make you dance, i truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth--when i sing to make you dance. when i bring sweet things to your greedy hands, i know why there is honey in the cup of the flower, and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice--when i bring sweet things to your greedy hands. when i kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, i surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight the summer breeze brings to my body--when i kiss you to make you smile. defamation why are those tears in your eyes, my child? how horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing? you have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing--is that why they call you dirty? o, fie! would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink? for every little trifle they blame you, my child. they are ready to find fault for nothing. you tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you untidy? o, fie! what would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds? take no heed of what they say to you, my child. take no heed of what they say to you, my child. they make a long list of your misdeeds. everybody knows how you love sweet things--is that why they call you greedy? o, fie! what then would they call us who love you? the judge say of him what you please, but i know my child's failings. i do not love him because he is good, but because he is my little child. how should you know how dear he can be when you try to weigh his merits against his faults? when i must punish him he becomes all the more a part of my being. when i cause his tears to come my heart weeps with him. i alone have a right to blame and punish, for he only may chastise who loves. playthings child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning. i smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig. i am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour. perhaps you glance at me and think, "what a stupid game to spoil your morning with!" child, i have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies. i seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver. with whatever you find you create your glad games, i spend both my time and my strength over things i never can obtain. in my frail canoe i struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that i too am playing a game. the astronomer i only said, "when in the evening the round full moon gets entangled among the branches of that _kadam_ tree, couldn't somebody catch it?" but dâdâ [_elder brother_] laughed at me and said, "baby, you are the silliest child i have ever known. the moon is ever so far from us, how could anybody catch it?" i said, "dâdâ how foolish you are! when mother looks out of her window and smiles down at us playing, would you call her far away?" still said, "you are a stupid child! but, baby, where could you find a net big enough to catch the moon with?" i said, "surely you could catch it with your hands." but dâdâ laughed and said, "you are the silliest child i have known. if it came nearer, you would see how big the moon is." i said, "dâdâ, what nonsense they teach at your school! when mother bends her face down to kiss us does her face look very big?" but still dâdâ says, "you are a stupid child." clouds and waves mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-"we play from the time we wake till the day ends. we play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon. i ask, "but, how am i to get up to you?" they answer, "come to the edge of the earth, lift up your hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds." "my mother is waiting for me at home," i say. "how can i leave her and come?" then they smile and float away. but i know a nicer game than that, mother. i shall be the cloud and you the moon. i shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will be the blue sky. the folk who live in the waves call out to me-"we sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know not where we pass." i ask, "but, how am i to join you?" they tell me, "come to the edge of the shore and stand with your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves." i say, "my mother always wants me at home in the evening--how can i leave her and go?" then they smile, dance and pass by. but i know a better game than that. i will be the waves and you will be a strange shore. i shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with laughter. and no one in the world will know where we both are. the champa flower supposing i became a _champa_ flower, just for fun, and grew on a branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother? you would call, "baby, where are you?" and i should laugh to myself and keep quite quiet. i should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work. when after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the _champa_ tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it came from me. when after the midday meal you sat at the window reading _ramayana_, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, i should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading. but would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? when in the evening you went to the cow-shed with the lighted lamp in your hand, i should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story. "where have you been, you naughty child?" "i won't tell you, mother." that's what you and i would say then. [illustration: from a drawing by abanindranath tagore--see cfairy.jpg] fairyland if people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish into the air. the walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold. the queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms. but let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's palace is. it is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the _tulsi_ plant stands. the princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven impassable seas. there is none in the world who can find her but myself. she has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her hair sweeps down upon the floor. she will wake when i touch her with my magic wand, and jewels will fall from her lips when she smiles. but let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the corner of our terrace where the pot of the _tulsi_ plant stands. when it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step up to that terrace on the roof. i sit in the corner where the shadows of the walls meet together. only puss is allowed to come with me, for she knows where the barber in the story lives. but let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in the story lives. it is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the _tulsi_ plant stands. the land of the exile mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; i do not know what the time is. there is no fun in my play, so i have come to you. it is saturday, our holiday. leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell me where the desert of tepântar in the fairy tale is? the shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end. the fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails. when the clouds rumble and it thunders, i love to be afraid in my heart and cling to you. when the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, i like to sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the desert of tepântar in the fairy tale. where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of what hills, in the kingdom of what king? there are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load to the market. with patches of yellow grass in the sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies the desert of tepântar. i can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace across that unknown water. when the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of tepântar in the fairy tale? see, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and there are no travellers yonder on the village road. the shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their huts, watching the scowling clouds. mother, i have left all my books on the shelf--do not ask me to do my lessons now. when i grow up and am big like my father, i shall learn all that must be learnt. but just for to-day, tell me, mother, where the desert of tepântar in the fairy tale is? the rainy day sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the forest. o child, do not go out! the palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads against the dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river is haunted by a deepening gloom. our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence. o child, wait here till i bring her into the stall. men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run away from his mother to tease her. listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford. o child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed. the sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home early from the ganges with their filled pitchers. the evening lamps must be made ready. o child, do not go out! the road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is slippery. the wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo branches like a wild beast tangled in a net. [illustration: from a drawing by surendranath ganguli--see cboat.jpg] paper boats day by day i float my paper boats one by one down the running stream. in big black letters i write my name on them and the name of the village where i live. i hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who i am. i load my little boats with _shiuli_ flowers from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night. i launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little clouds setting their white bulging sails. i know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats! when night comes i bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars. the fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets full of dreams. the sailor the boat of the boatman madhu is moored at the wharf of rajgunj. it is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle for ever so long. if he would only lend me his boat, i should man her with a hundred oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven. i should never steer her to stupid markets. i should sail the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland. but, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner. i am not going into the forest like ramachandra to come back only after fourteen years. i shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with whatever i like. i shall take my friend ashu with me. we shall sail merrily across the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland. we shall set sail in the early morning light. when at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the land of a strange king. we shall pass the ford of tirpurni, and leave behind us the desert of tepântar. when we come back it will be getting dark, and i shall tell you of all that we have seen. i shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland. the further bank i long to go over there to the further bank of the river, where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line; where men cross over in their boats in the morning with ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields; where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the riverside pasture; whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds, mother, if you don't mind, i should like to become the boatman of the ferry when i am grown up. they say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank, where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and thick reeds grow round the margins where waterbirds lay their eggs; where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny footprints upon the clean soft mud; where in the evening the tall grasses crested with white flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves. mother, if you don't mind, i should like to become the boatman of the ferryboat when i am grown up. i shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are bathing. when the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon, i shall come running to you, saying, "mother, i am hungry!" when the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees, i shall come back in the dusk. i shall never go away from you into the town to work like father. mother, if you don't mind, i should like to become the boatman of the ferryboat when i am grown up. the flower-school when storm clouds rumble in the sky and june showers come down, the moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos. then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee. mother, i really think the flowers go to school underground. they do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner. when the rains come they have their holidays. branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white. do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are. haven't you seen how eager they are to get there? don't you know why they are in such a hurry? of course, i can guess to whom they raise their arms: they have their mother as i have my own. [illustration: from a drawing by asit kumar haldar--see cmerchant.jpg] the merchant imagine, mother, that you are to stay at home and i am to travel into strange lands. imagine that my boat is ready at the landing fully laden. now think well, mother, before you say what i shall bring for you when i come back. mother, do you want heaps and heaps of gold? there, by the banks of golden streams, fields are full of golden harvest. and in the shade of the forest path the golden _champa_ flowers drop on the ground. i will gather them all for you in many hundred baskets. mother, do you want pearls big as the raindrops of autumn? i shall cross to the pearl island shore. there in the early morning light pearls tremble on the meadow flowers, pearls drop on the grass, and pearls are scattered on the sand in spray by the wild sea-waves. my brother shall have a pair of horses with wings to fly among the clouds. for father i shall bring a magic pen that, without his knowing, will write of itself. for you, mother, i must have the casket and jewel that cost seven kings their kingdoms. sympathy if i were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would you say "no" to me if i tried to eat from your dish? would you drive me off, saying to me, "get away, you naughty little puppy?" then go, mother, go! i will never come to you when you call me, and never let you feed me any more. if i were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest i should fly away? would you shake your finger at me and say, "what an ungrateful wretch of a bird! it is gnawing at its chain day and night?" then, go, mother, go! i will run away into the woods; i will never let you take me in your arms again. vocation when the gong sounds ten in the morning and i walk to school by our lane, every day i meet the hawker crying, "bangles, crystal bangles!" there is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home. i wish i were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, "bangles, crystal bangles!" when at four in the afternoon i come back from the school, i can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging the ground. he does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or gets wet. i wish i were a gardener digging away at the garden with nobody to stop me from digging. just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to bed, i can see through my open window the watchman walking up and down. the lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like a giant with one red eye in its head. the watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at his side, and never once goes to bed in his life. i wish i were a watchman walking the streets all night, chasing the shadows with my lantern. superior mother, your baby is silly! she is so absurdly childish! she does not know the difference between the lights in the streets and the stars. when we play at eating with pebbles, she thinks they are real food, and tries to put them into her mouth. when i open a book before her and ask her to learn her a, b, c, she tears the leaves with her hands and roars for joy at nothing; this is your baby's way of doing her lesson. when i shake my head at her in anger and scold her and call her naughty, she laughs and thinks it great fun. everybody knows that father is away, but if in play i call aloud "father," she looks about her in excitement and thinks that father is near. when i hold my class with the donkeys that our washerman brings to carry away the clothes and i warn her that i am the schoolmaster, she will scream for no reason and call me dâdâ. [_elder brother_ ] your baby wants to catch the moon. she is so funny; she calls ganesh gânush. [_ganesh, a common name in india, also that of the god with the elephant's head._] mother, your baby is silly, she is so absurdly childish! the little big man i am small because i am a little child. i shall be big when i am as old as my father is. my teacher will come and say, "it is late, bring your slate and your books." i shall tell him, "do you not know i am as big as father? and i must not have lessons any more." my master will wonder and say, "he can leave his books if he likes, for he is grown up." i shall dress myself and walk to the fair where the crowd is thick. my uncle will come rushing up to me and say, "you will get lost, my boy; let me carry you." i shall answer, "can't you see, uncle, i am as big as father. i must go to the fair alone." uncle will say, "yes, he can go wherever he likes, for he is grown up." mother will come from her bath when i am giving money to my nurse, for i shall know how to open the box with my key. mother will say, "what are you about, naughty child?" i shall tell her, "mother, don't you know, i am as big as father, and i must give silver to my nurse." mother will say to herself, "he can give money to whom he likes, for he is grown up." in the holiday time in october father will come home and, thinking that i am still a baby, will bring for me from the town little shoes and small silken frocks. i shall say, "father, give them to my dâdâ [_elder brother_], for i am as big as you are." father will think and say, "he can buy his own clothes if he likes, for he is grown up." twelve o'clock mother, i do want to leave off my lessons now. i have been at my book all the morning. you say it is only twelve o'clock. suppose it isn't any later; can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock? i can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of that rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for her supper by the side of the pond. i can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker under the _madar_ tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny black. if twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night come when it is twelve o'clock? authorship you say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes i don't understand. he was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant? what nice stories, mother, you can tell us! why can't father write like that, i wonder? did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses? has he forgotten them all? often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times. you wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets. father always plays at making books. if ever i go to play in father's room, you come and call me, "what a naughty child!" if i make the slightest noise, you say, "don't you see that father's at his work?" what's the fun of always writing and writing? when i take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does,--a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i,--why do you get cross with me, then, mother? you never say a word when father writes. when my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't seem to mind at all. but if i take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "child, how troublesome you are!" what do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides? the wicked postman why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me, mother dear? the rain is coming in through the open window, making you all wet, and you don't mind it. do you hear the gong striking four? it is time for my brother to come home from school. what has happened to you that you look so strange? haven't you got a letter from father to-day? i saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in the town. only, father's letters he keeps to read himself. i am sure the postman is a wicked man. but don't be unhappy about that, mother dear. to-morrow is market day in the next village. you ask your maid to buy some pens and papers. i myself will write all father's letters; you will not find a single mistake. i shall write from a right up to k. but, mother, why do you smile? you don't believe that i can write as nicely as father does! but i shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters beautifully big. when i finish my writing, do you think i shall be so foolish as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag? i shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by letter help you to read my writing. i know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters. [illustration: from a drawing by nandalall bose--see chero.jpg] the hero mother, let us imagine we are travelling, and passing through a strange and dangerous country. you are riding in a palanquin and i am trotting by you on a red horse. it is evening and the sun goes down. the waste of _joradighi_ lies wan and grey before us. the land is desolate and barren. you are frightened and thinking--"i know not where we have come to." i say to you, "mother, do not be afraid." the meadow is prickly with spiky grass, and through it runs a narrow broken path. there are no cattle to be seen in the wide field; they have gone to their village stalls. it grows dark and dim on the land and sky, and we cannot tell where we are going. suddenly you call me and ask me in a whisper, "what light is that near the bank?" just then there bursts out a fearful yell, and figures come running towards us. you sit crouched in your palanquin and repeat the names of the gods in prayer. the bearers, shaking in terror, hide themselves in the thorny bush. i shout to you, "don't be afraid, mother. i am here." with long sticks in their hands and hair all wild about their heads, they come nearer and nearer. i shout, "have a care! you villains! one step more and you are dead men." they give another terrible yell and rush forward. you clutch my hand and say, "dear boy, for heaven's sake, keep away from them." i say, "mother, just you watch me." then i spur my horse for a wild gallop, and my sword and buckler clash against each other. the fight becomes so fearful, mother, that it would give you a cold shudder could you see it from your palanquin. many of them fly, and a great number are cut to pieces. i know you are thinking, sitting all by yourself, that your boy must be dead by this time. but i come to you all stained with blood, and say, "mother, the fight is over now." you come out and kiss me, pressing me to your heart, and you say to yourself, "i don't know what i should do if i hadn't my boy to escort me." a thousand useless things happen day after day, and why couldn't such a thing come true by chance? it would be like a story in a book. my brother would say, "is it possible? i always thought he was so delicate!" our village people would all say in amazement, "was it not lucky that the boy was with his mother?" the end it is time for me to go, mother; i am going. when in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, i shall say, "baby is not there!"--mother, i am going. i shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and i shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again. in the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room. if you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, i shall sing to you from the stars, "sleep mother, sleep." on the straying moonbeams i shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. i shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids i shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly i shall flit out into the darkness. when, on the great festival of _puja_, the neighbours' children come and play about the house, i shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. dear auntie will come with _puja_-presents and will ask, "where is our baby, sister? mother, you will tell her softly, "he is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul." the recall the night was dark when she went away, and they slept. the night is dark now, and i call for her, "come back, my darling; the world is asleep; and no one would know, if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at stars." she went away when the trees were in bud and the spring was young. now the flowers are in high bloom and i call, "come back, my darling. the children gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport. and if you come and take one little blossom no one will miss it." those that used to play are playing still, so spendthrift is life. i listen to their chatter and call, "come back, my darling, for mother's heart is full to the brim with love, and if you come to snatch only one little kiss from her no one will grudge it." the first jasmines ah, these jasmines, these white jasmines! i seem to remember the first day when i filled my hands with these jasmines, these white jasmines. i have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth; i have heard the liquid murmur of the river through the darkness of midnight; autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of a road in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil to accept her lover. yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines that i held in my hand when i was a child. many a glad day has come in my life, and i have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights. on grey mornings of rain i have crooned many an idle song. i have worn round my neck the evening wreath of _bakulas_ woven by the hand of love. yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines that filled my hands when i was a child. the banyan tree o you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond, have you forgotten the little child, like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you? do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground? the women would come to fill their jars in the pond, and your huge black shadow would wriggle on the water like sleep struggling to wake up. sunlight danced on the ripples like restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry. two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows, and the child would sit still and think. he longed to be the wind and blow through your rustling branches, to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water, to be a bird and perch on your top-most twig, and to float like those ducks among the weeds and shadows. [illustration: from a drawing by surendranath ganguli--see cbene.jpg] benediction bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth. he loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his mother's face. he has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold. clasp him to your heart and bless him. he has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads. i know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and grasped your hand to ask his way. he will follow you, laughing and talking, and not a doubt in his heart. keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him. lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and fill his sails and waft him to the haven of peace. forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and bless him. the gift i want to give you something, my child, for we are drifting in the stream of the world. our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten. but i am not so foolish as to hope that i could buy your heart with my gifts. young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us. you have your play and your playmates. what harm is there if you have no time or thought for us. we, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost for ever. the river runs swift with a song, breaking through all barriers. but the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her with his love. my song this song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love. this song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing. when you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness. my song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown. it will be like the faithful star overhead when dark night is over your road. my song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things. and when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart. the child-angel they clamour and fight, they doubt and despair, they know no end to their wranglings. let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, my child, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence. they are cruel in their greed and their envy, their words are like hidden knives thirsting for blood. go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, my child, and let your gentle eyes fall upon them like the forgiving peace of the evening over the strife of the day. let them see your face, my child, and thus know the meaning of all things; let them love you and thus love each other. come and take your seat in the bosom of the limitless, my child. at sunrise open and raise your heart like a blossoming flower, and at sunset bend your head and in silence complete the worship of the day. the last bargain "come and hire me," i cried, while in the morning i was walking on the stone-paved road. sword in hand, the king came in his chariot. he held my hand and said, "i will hire you with my power." but his power counted for nought, and he went away in his chariot. in the heat of the midday the houses stood with shut doors. i wandered along the crooked lane. an old man came out with his bag of gold. he pondered and said, "i will hire you with my money." he weighed his coins one by one, but i turned away. it was evening. the garden hedge was all aflower. the fair maid came out and said, "i will hire you with a smile." her smile paled and melted into tears, and she went back alone into the dark. the sun glistened on the sand, and the sea waves broke waywardly. a child sat playing with shells. he raised his head and seemed to know me, and said, "i hire you with nothing." from thenceforward that bargain struck in child's play made me a free man. the end the gardener by rabindranath tagore translated by the author from the original bengali 1915 [frontispiece: rabindranath tagore. age 16--see tagore.jpg] to w. b. yeats thanks are due to the editor of _poetry, a magazine of verse_, for permission to reprint eight poems in this volume. preface most of the lyrics of love and life, the translations of which from bengali are published in this book, were written much earlier than the series of religious poems contained in the book named _gitanjali_. the translations are not always literal--the originals being sometimes abridged and sometimes paraphrased. rabindranath tagore. 1 servant. have mercy upon your servant, my queen! queen. the assembly is over and my servants are all gone. why do you come at this late hour? servant. when you have finished with others, that is my time. i come to ask what remains for your last servant to do. queen. what can you expect when it is too late? servant. make me the gardener of your flower garden. queen. what folly is this? servant. i will give up my other work. i will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. but make me the gardener of your flower garden. queen. what will your duties be? servant. the service of your idle days. i will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death. i will swing you in a swing among the branches of the _saptaparna_, where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves. i will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs. queen. what will you have for your reward? servant. to be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of _ashoka_ petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there. queen. your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be the gardener of my flower garden. 2 "ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey. "do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?" "it is evening," the poet said, "and i am listening because some one may call from the village, late though it be. "i watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for them. "who is there to weave their passionate songs, if i sit on the shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond? "the early evening star disappears. "the glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river. "jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house in the light of the worn-out moon. "if some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if i, shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds? "it is a trifle that my hair is turning grey. "i am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of this village. "some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in their eyes. "some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears that are hidden in the gloom. they all have need for me, and i have no time to brood over the afterlife. "i am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?" 3 in the morning i cast my net into the sea. i dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and strange beauty--some shone like a smile, some glistened like tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride. when with the day's burden i went home, my love was sitting in the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower. i hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that i had dragged up, and stood silent. she glanced at them and said, "what strange things are these? i know not of what use they are!" i bowed my head in shame and thought, "i have not fought for these, i did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts for her." then the whole night through i flung them one by one into the street. in the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried them into far countries. 4 ah me, why did they build my house by the road to the market town? they moor their laden boats near my trees. they come and go and wander at their will. i sit and watch them; my time wears on. turn them away i cannot. and thus my days pass by. night and day their steps sound by my door. vainly i cry, "i do not know you." some of them are known to my fingers, some to my nostrils, the blood in my veins seems to know them, and some are known to my dreams. turn them away i cannot. i call them and say, "come to my house whoever chooses. yes, come." in the morning the bell rings in the temple. they come with their baskets in their hands. their feet are rosy red. the early light of dawn is on their faces. turn them away i cannot. i call them and i say, "come to my garden to gather flowers. come hither." in the mid-day the gong sounds at the palace gate. i know not why they leave their work and linger near my hedge. the flowers in their hair are pale and faded; the notes are languid in their flutes. turn them away i cannot. i call them and say, "the shade is cool under my trees. come, friends." at night the crickets chirp in the woods. who is it that comes slowly to my door and gently knocks? i vaguely see the face, not a word is spoken, the stillness of the sky is all around. turn away my silent guest i cannot. i look at the face through the dark, and hours of dreams pass by. 5 i am restless. i am athirst for far-away things. my soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. o great beyond, o the keen call of thy flute! i forget, i ever forget, that i have no wings to fly, that i am bound in this spot evermore. i am eager and wakeful, i am a stranger in a strange land. thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope. thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own. o far-to-seek, o the keen call of thy flute! i forget, i ever forget, that i know not the way, that i have not the winged horse. i am listless, i am a wanderer in my heart. in the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky! o farthest end, o the keen call of thy flute! i forget, i ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in the house where i dwell alone! 6 the tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest. they met when the time came, it was a decree of fate. the free bird cries, "o my love, let us fly to wood." the cage bird whispers, "come hither, let us both live in the cage." says the free bird, "among bars, where is there room to spread one's wings?" "alas," cries the cage bird, "i should not know where to sit perched in the sky." the free bird cries, "my darling, sing the songs of the woodlands." the cage bird says, "sit by my side, i'll teach you the speech of the learned." the forest bird cries, "no, ah no! songs can never be taught." the cage bird says, "alas for me, i know not the songs of the woodlands." their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing. through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other. they flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "come closer, my love!" the free bird cries, "it cannot be, i fear the closed doors of the cage." the cage bird whispers, "alas, my wings are powerless and dead." 7 o mother, the young prince is to pass by our door,--how can i attend to my work this morning? show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on. why do you look at me amazed, mother? i know well he will not glance up once at my window; i know he will pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the vanishing strain of the flute will come sobbing to me from afar. but the young prince will pass by our door, and i will put on my best for the moment. o mother, the young prince did pass by our door, and the morning sun flashed from his chariot. i swept aside the veil from my face, i tore the ruby chain from my neck and flung it in his path. why do you look at me amazed, mother? i know well he did not pick up my chain; i know it was crushed under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the dust, and no one knows what my gift was nor to whom. but the young prince did pass by our door, and i flung the jewel from my breast before his path. 8 when the lamp went out by my bed i woke up with the early birds. i sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair. the young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the morning. a pearl chain was on his neck, and the sun's rays fell on his crown. he stopped before my door and asked me with an eager cry, "where is she?" for very shame i could not say, "she is i, young traveller, she is i." it was dusk and the lamp was not lit. i was listlessly braiding my hair. the young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the setting sun. his horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his garment. he alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, "where is she?" for very shame i could not say, "she is i, weary traveller, she is i." it is an april night. the lamp is burning in my room. the breeze of the south comes gently. the noisy parrot sleeps in its cage. my bodice is of the colour of the peacock's throat, and my mantle is green as young grass. i sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street. through the dark night i keep humming, "she is i, despairing traveller, she is i." 9 when i go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent. it is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and i am ashamed. when i sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep. it is my own heart that beats wildly--i do not know how to quiet it. when my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars. it is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. i do not know how to hide it. 10 let your work be, bride. listen, the guest has come. do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the door? see that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is not over-hurried at meeting him. let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening. no, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. it is the full moon on a night of april; shadows are pale in the courtyard; the sky overhead is bright. draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the door if you fear. no, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when you meet him. if he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your eyes in silence. do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him in. have no word with him if you are shy. have you not finished your work yet, bride? listen, the guest has come. have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed? have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening service? have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the night? o bride, do you hear, the guest has come? let your work be! 11 come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet. if your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do not mind. come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet. come, with quick steps over the grass. if the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of your chain, do not mind. come with quick steps over the grass. do you see the clouds wrapping the sky? flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful gusts of wind rush over the heath. the anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village. do you see the clouds wrapping the sky? in vain you light your toilet lamp--it flickers and goes out in the wind. who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lamp black? for your eyes are darker than rain-clouds. in vain you light your toilet lamp--it goes out. come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet. if the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not been linked, let it be. the sky is overcast with clouds--it is late. come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet. 12 if you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, o come to my lake. the water will cling round your feet and babble its secret. the shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows. i know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my heart. come, o come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher. if you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float on the water, come, o come to my lake. the grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number. your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from their nests. your veil will drop to your feet. come, o come to my lake if you must sit idle. if you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, o come to my lake. let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover you and hide you. the waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in your ears. come, o come to my lake, if you would dive in the water. if you must be mad and leap to your death, come, o come to my lake. it is cool and fathomlessly deep. it is dark like a sleep that is dreamless. there in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are silence. come, o come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death. 13 i asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree. languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the air. the lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth. under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands, tender and fresh as butter. and i was standing still. i did not say a word. it was the bird that sang unseen from the thicket. the mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road, and the bees came humming one by one. on the side of the pond the gate of _shiva's_ temple was opened and the worshipper had begun his chants. with the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow. i stood with my empty can. i did not come near you. the sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple. the dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle. with the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the river. your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar. the morning wore on and i did not come near you. 14 i was walking by the road, i do not know why, when the noonday was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind. the prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light. the _koels_ were weary of their songs. i was walking by the road, i do not know why. the hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging tree. some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in the corner. i stood before this hut, i know not why. the narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a mango forest. it passes by the temple of the village and the market at the river landing place. i stopped by this hut, i do not know why. years ago it was a day of breezy march when the murmur of the spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the dust. the rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood on the landing step. i think of that day of breezy march, i do not know why. shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds. the light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are waiting for the ferry at the bank. i slowly return upon my steps, i do not know why. 15 i run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume. the night is the night of mid-may, the breeze is the breeze of the south. i lose my way and i wander, i seek what i cannot get, i get what i do not seek. from my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire. the gleaming vision flits on. i try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray. i seek what i cannot get, i get what i do not seek. 16 hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts. it is the moonlit night of march; the sweet smell of _henna_ is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers in unfinished. this love between you and me is simple as a song. your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk. the jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise. it is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles. this love between you and me is simple as a song. no mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark. this love between you and me is simple as a song. we do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope. it is enough what we give and we get. we have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain. this love between you and me is simple as a song. 17 the yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness. we both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of joy. her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden trees. if they stray into our barley field, i take them up in my arms. the name of our village is khanjan, and anjan they call our river. my name is known to all the village, and her name is ranjan. only one field lies between us. bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs. flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the stream where we bathe. baskets of dried _kusm_ flowers come from their fields to our market. the name of our village is khanjan, and anjan they call our river. my name is known to all the village, and her name is ranjan. the lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with mango flowers. when their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in our field. the stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling look. the rain that floods their tank makes glad our _kadam_ forest. the name of our village is khanjan, and anjan they call our river. my name is known to all the village, and her name is ranjan. 18 when the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot and they smile. they must be aware of somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water. the two sisters whisper to each other when they pass this spot. they must have guessed the secret of that somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water. their pitchers lurch suddenly, and water spills when they reach this spot. they must have found out that somebody's heart is beating who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water. the two sisters glance at each other when they come to this spot, and they smile. there is a laughter in their swift-stepping feet, which makes confusion in somebody's mind who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water. 19 you walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your hip. why did you swiftly turn your face and peep at me through your fluttering veil? that gleaming look from the dark came upon me like a breeze that sends a shiver through the rippling water and sweeps away to the shadowy shore. it came to me like the bird of the evening that hurriedly flies across the lampless room from the one open window to the other, and disappears in the night. you are hidden as a star behind the hills, and i am a passer-by upon the road. but why did you stop for a moment and glance at my face through your veil while you walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your hip? 20 day after day he comes and goes away. go, and give him a flower from my hair, my friend. if he asks who was it that sent it, i entreat you do not tell him my name--for he only comes and goes away. he sits on the dust under the tree. spread there a seat with flowers and leaves, my friend. his eyes are sad, and they bring sadness to my heart. he does not speak what he has in mind; he only comes and goes away. 21 why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when the day dawned? as i come in and out i pass by him every time, and my eyes are caught by his face. i know not if i should speak to him or keep silent. why did he choose to come to my door? the cloudy nights in july are dark; the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind. he weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time. i turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist. why did he choose to come to my door? 22 when she passed by me with quick steps, the end of her skirt touched me. from the unknown island of a heart came a sudden warm breath of spring. a flutter of a flitting touch brushed me and vanished in a moment, like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze. it fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body and whisper of her heart. 23 why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets in mere idle sport? fill your pitcher. it is time for you to come home. why do you stir the water with your hands and fitfully glance at the road for some one in mere idle sport? fill your pitcher and come home. the morning hours pass by--the dark water flows on. the waves are laughing and whispering to each other in mere idle sport. the wandering clouds have gathered at the edge of the sky on yonder rise of the land. they linger and look at your face and smile in mere idle sport. fill your pitcher and come home. 24 do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend! say it to me, only to me, in secret. you who smile so gently, softly whisper, my heart will hear it, not my ears. the night is deep, the house is silent, the birds' nests are shrouded with sleep. speak to me through hesitating tears, through faltering smiles, through sweet shame and pain, the secret of your heart! 25 "come to us, youth, tell us truly why there is madness in your eyes?" "i know not what wine of wild poppy i have drunk, that there is this madness in my eyes." "ah, shame!" "well, some are wise and some foolish, some are watchful and some careless. there are eyes that smile and eyes that weep--and madness is in my eyes." "youth, why do you stand so still under the shadow of the tree?" "my feet are languid with the burden of my heart, and i stand still in the shadow." "ah, shame!" "well, some march on their way and some linger, some are free and some are fettered--and my feet are languid with the burden of my heart." 26 "what comes from your willing hands i take. i beg for nothing more." "yes, yes, i know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has." "if there be a stray flower for me i will wear it in my heart." "but if there be thorns?" "i will endure them." "yes, yes, i know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has." "if but once you should raise your loving eyes to my face it would make my life sweet beyond death." "but if there by only cruel glances?" "i will keep them piercing my heart." "yes, yes, i know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one has." 27 "trust love even if it brings sorrow. do not close up your heart." "ah no, my friend, your words are dark, i cannot understand them." "the heart is only for giving away with a tear and a song, my love." "ah no, my friend, your words are dark, i cannot understand them." "pleasure is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies. but sorrow is strong and abiding. let sorrowful love wake in your eyes." "ah no, my friend, your words are dark, i cannot understand them." "the lotus blooms in the sight of the sun, and loses all that it has. it would not remain in bud in the eternal winter mist." "ah no, my friend, your words are dark, i cannot understand them." 28 your questioning eyes are sad. they seek to know my meaning as the moon would fathom the sea. i have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, with nothing hidden or held back. that is why you know me not. if it were only a gem i could break it into a hundred pieces and string them into a chain to put on your neck. if it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, i could pluck it from its stem to set it in your hair. but it is a heart, my beloved. where are its shores and its bottom? you know not the limits of this kingdom, still you are its queen. if it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy smile, and you could see it and read it in a moment. if it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears, reflecting its inmost secret without a word. but it is love, my beloved. its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and wealth. it is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know it. 29 speak to me, my love! tell me in words what you sang. the night is dark. the stars are lost in clouds. the wind is sighing through the leaves. i will let loose my hair. my blue cloak will cling round me like night. i will clasp your head to my bosom; and there in the sweet loneliness murmur on your heart. i will shut my eyes and listen. i will not look in your face. when your words are ended, we will sit still and silent. only the trees will whisper in the dark. the night will pale. the day will dawn. we shall look at each other's eyes and go on our different paths. speak to me, my love! tell me in words what you sang. 30 you are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams. i paint you and fashion you ever with my love longings. you are my own, my own, dweller in my endless dreams! your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my heart's desire, gleaner of my sunset songs! your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain. you are my own, my own, dweller in my lonesome dreams! with the shadow of my passion have i darkened your eyes, haunter of the depth of my gaze! i have caught you and wrapt you, my love, in the net of my music. you are my own, my own, dweller in my deathless dreams! 31 my heart, the bird of the wilderness, has found its sky in your eyes. they are the cradle of the morning, they are the kingdom of the stars. my songs are lost in their depths. let me but soar in that sky, in its lonely immensity. let me but cleave its clouds and spread wings in its sunshine. 32 tell me if this be all true, my lover, tell me if this be true. when these eyes flash their lightning the dark clouds in your breast make stormy answer. is it true that my lips are sweet like the opening bud of the first conscious love? do the memories of vanished months of may linger in my limbs? does the earth, like a harp, shiver into songs with the touch of my feet? is it then true that the dewdrops fall from the eyes of night when i am seen, and the morning light is glad when it wraps my body round? is it true, is it true, that your love travelled alone through ages and worlds in search of me? that when you found me at last, your age-long desire found utter peace in my gentle speech and my eyes and lips and flowing hair? is it then true that the mystery of the infinite is written on this little forehead of mine? tell me, my lover, if all this be true. 33 i love you, beloved. forgive me my love. like a bird losing its way i am caught. when my heart was shaken it lost its veil and was naked. cover it with pity, beloved, and forgive me my love. if you cannot love me, beloved, forgive me my pain. do not look askance at me from afar. i will steal back to my corner and sit in the dark. with both hands i will cover my naked shame. turn your face from me, beloved, and forgive me my pain. if you love me, beloved, forgive me my joy. when my heart is borne away by the flood of happiness, do not smile at my perilous abandonment. when i sit on my throne and rule you with my tyranny of love, when like a goddess i grant you my favour, bear with my pride, beloved, and forgive me my joy. 34 do not go, my love, without asking my leave. i have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep. i fear lest i lose you when i am sleeping. do not go, my love, without asking my leave. i start up and stretch my hands to touch you. i ask myself, "is it a dream?" could i but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast to my breast! do not go, my love, without asking my leave. 35 lest i should know you too easily, you play with me. you blind me with flashes of laughter to hide your tears. i know, i know your art. you never say the word you would. lest i should not prize you, you elude me in a thousand ways. lest i should confuse you with the crowd, you stand aside. i know, i know your art, you never walk the path you would. your claim is more than that of others, that is why you are silent. with playful carelessness you avoid my gifts. i know, i know your art, you never will take what you would. 36 he whispered, "my love, raise your eyes." i sharply chid him, and said "go!"; but he did not stir. he stood before me and held both my hands. i said, "leave me!"; but he did not go. he brought his face near my ear. i glanced at him and said, "what a shame!"; but he did not move. his lips touched my cheek. i trembled and said, "you dare too much;" but he had no shame. he put a flower in my hair. i said, "it is useless!"; but he stood unmoved. he took the garland from my neck and went away. i weep and ask my heart, "why does he not come back?" 37 would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck, fair one? but you must know that the one wreath that i had woven is for the many, for those who are seen in glimpses, or dwell in lands unexplored, or live in poets' songs. it is too late to ask my heart in return for yours. there was a time when my life was like a bud, all its perfume was stored in its core. now it is squandered far and wide. who knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again? my heart is not mine to give to one only, it is given to the many. 38 my love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his mind. alas, i was not careful, and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief. it broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet. all my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank. you must make this loss good to me, my love. if my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, make me immortal while i live. and i will not mourn for my loss nor blame you. 39 i try to weave a wreath all the morning, but the flowers slip and they drop out. you sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your prying eyes. ask those eyes, darkly planning mischief, whose fault it was. i try to sing a song, but in vain. a hidden smile trembles on your lips, ask of it the reason of my failure. let your smiling lips say on oath how my voice lost itself in silence like a drunken bee in the lotus. it is evening, and the time for the flowers to close their petals. give me leave to sit by your side, and bid my lips to do the work that can be done in silence and in the dim light of stars. 40 an unbelieving smile flits on your eyes when i come to you to take my leave. i have done it so often that you think i will soon return. to tell you the truth i have the same doubt in my mind. for the spring days come again time after time; the full moon takes leave and comes on another visit, the flowers come again and blush upon their branches year after year, and it is likely that i take my leave only to come to you again. but keep the illusion awhile; do not send it away with ungentle haste. when i say i leave you for all time, accept it as true, and let a mist of tears for one moment deepen the dark rim of your eyes. then smile as archly as you like when i come again. 41 i long to speak the deepest words i have to say to you; but i dare not, for fear you should laugh. that is why i laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest. i make light of my pain, afraid you should do so. i long to tell you the truest words i have to say to you; but i dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them. that is why i disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of what i mean. i make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so. i long to use the most precious words i have for you; but i dare not, fearing i should not be paid with like value. that is why i gave you hard names and boast of my callous strength. i hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain. i long to sit silent by you; but i dare not lest my heart come out at my lips. that is why i prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart behind words. i rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so. i long to go away from your side; but i dare not, for fear my cowardice should become known to you. that is why i hold my head high and carelessly come into your presence. constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever. 42 o mad, superbly drunk; if you kick open your doors and play the fool in public; if you empty your bag in a night, and snap your fingers at prudence; if you walk in curious paths and play with useless things; reck not rhyme or reason; if unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in two, then i will follow you, comrade, and be drunken and go to the dogs. i have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise neighbours. much knowing has turned my hair grey, and much watching has made my sight dim. for years i have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of things; crush them and dance upon them, and scatter them all to the winds. for i know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go to the dogs. let all crooked scruples vanish, let me hopelessly lose my way. let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my anchors. the world is peopled with worthies, and workers, useful and clever. there are men who are easily first, and men who come decently after. let them be happy and prosper, and let me be foolishly futile. for i know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the dogs. i swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the decent. i let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong. i'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering the last drop of tears. with the foam of the berry-red wine i will bathe and brighten my laughter. the badge of the civil and staid i'll tear into shreds for the nonce. i'll take the holy vow to be worthless, to be drunken and go to the dogs. 43 no, my friends, i shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may say. i shall never be an ascetic if she does not take the vow with me. it is my firm resolve that if i cannot find a shady shelter and a companion for my penance, i shall never turn ascetic. no, my friends, i shall never leave my hearth and home, and retire into the forest solitude, if rings no merry laughter in its echoing shade and if the end of no saffron mantle flutters in the wind; if its silence is not deepened by soft whispers. i shall never be an ascetic. 44 reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners. spring winds to-day are blowing in wild eddies, driving dust and dead leaves away, and with them your lessons are all lost. do not say, father, that life is a vanity. for we have made truce with death for once, and only for a few fragrant hours we two have been made immortal. even if the king's army came and fiercely fell upon us we should sadly shake our heads and say, brothers, you are disturbing us. if you must have this noisy game, go and clatter your arms elsewhere. since only for a few fleeting moments we have been made immortal. if friendly people came and flocked around us, we should humbly bow to them and say, this extravagant good fortune is an embarrassment to us. room is scarce in the infinite sky where we dwell. for in the springtime flowers come in crowds, and the busy wings of bees jostle each other. our little heaven, where dwell only we two immortals, is too absurdly narrow. 45 to the guests that must go bid god's speed and brush away all traces of their steps. take to your bosom with a smile what is easy and simple and near. to-day is the festival of phantoms that know not when they die. let your laughter be but a meaningless mirth like twinkles of light on the ripples. let your life lightly dance on the edges of time like dew on the tip of a leaf. strike in chords from your harp fitful momentary rhythms. 46 you left me and went on your way. i thought i should mourn for you and set your solitary image in my heart wrought in a golden song. but ah, my evil fortune, time is short. youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; the frail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me that life is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf. should i neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned her back on me? that would be rude and foolish, for time is short. then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my golden autumn; come, careless april, scattering your kisses abroad. you come, and you, and you also! my loves, you know we are mortals. is it wise to break one's heart for the one who takes her heart away? for time is short. it is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that you are all my world. it is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to be consoled. but a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my eyes. i cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song. for time is short. 47 if you would have it so, i will end my singing. if it sets your heart aflutter, i will take away my eyes from your face. if it suddenly startles you in your walk, i will step aside and take another path. if it confuses you in your flower-weaving, i will shun your lonely garden. if it makes the water wanton and wild, i will not row my boat by your bank. 48 free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! no more of this wine of kisses. this mist of heavy incense stifles my heart. open the doors, make room for the morning light. i am lost in you, wrapped in the folds of your caresses. free me from your spells, and give me back the manhood to offer you my freed heart. 49 i hold her hands and press her to my breast. i try to fill my arms with her loveliness, to plunder her sweet smile with kisses, to drink her dark glances with my eyes. ah, but, where is it? who can strain the blue from the sky? i try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me, leaving only the body in my hands. baffled and weary i come back. how can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may touch? 50 love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you--for the meeting that is like all-devouring death. sweep me away like a storm; take everything i have; break open my sleep and plunder my dreams. rob me of my world. in that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us become one in beauty. alas for my vain desire! where is this hope for union except in thee, my god? 51 then finish the last song and let us leave. forget this night when the night is no more. whom do i try to clasp in my arms? dreams can never be made captive. my eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my breast. 52 why did the lamp go out? i shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why the lamp went out. why did the flower fade? i pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded. why did the stream dry up? i put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up. why did the harp-string break? i tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why the harp-string is broken. 53 why do you put me to shame with a look? i have not come as a beggar. only for a passing hour i stood at the end of your courtyard outside the garden hedge. why do you put me to shame with a look? not a rose did i gather from your garden, not a fruit did i pluck. i humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange traveller may stand. not a rose did i pluck. yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down. the winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches. the clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat. my feet were tired. i know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your door. flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes. how could i know that you could see me where i stood in the dark? i know not what you thought of me. the day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment. i leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on the grass. it has darkened; shut your door; i go my way. the day is ended. 54 where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the marketing is over? they all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from above the village trees. the echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep. where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over? sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth. the nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the bamboo leaves are silent. the labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the courtyards. where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over? 55 it was mid-day when you went away. the sun was strong in the sky. i had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went away. fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant fields. the doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my room humming the news of many distant fields. the village slept in the noonday heat. the road lay deserted. in sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died. i glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name i had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat. i had forgotten to braid my hair. the languid breeze played with it upon my cheek. the river ran unruffled under the shady bank. the lazy white clouds did not move. i had forgotten to braid my hair. it was mid-day when you went away. the dust of the road was hot and the fields panting. the doves cooed among the dense leaves. i was alone in my balcony when you went away. 56 i was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks of the household. why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelter of our common life? love unexpressed in sacred. it shines like gems in the gloom of the hidden heart. in the light of the curious day it looks pitifully dark. ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged my trembling love into the open place, destroying for ever the shady corner where it hid its nest. the other women are the same as ever. no one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselves know not their own secret. lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work. daily they go to the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from the river. i hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of the shelterless, but you turn your face away. yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its lidless eyes staring night and day. 57 i plucked your flower, o world! i pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked. when the day waned and it darkened, i found that the flower had faded, but the pain remained. more flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, o world! but my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night i have not my rose, only the pain remains. 58 one morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a flower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf. i put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes. i kissed her and said, "you are blind even as the flowers are. you yourself know not how beautiful is your gift." 59 o woman, you are not merely the handiwork of god, but also of men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts. poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery; painters are giving your form ever new immortality. the sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summer gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you more precious. the desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth. you are one half woman and one half dream. 60 amidst the rush and roar of life, o beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof. great time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs: "speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride!" but your speech is shut up in stone, o immovable beauty! 61 peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet. let it not be a death but completeness. let love melt into memory and pain into songs. let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. stand still, o beautiful end, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. i bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way. 62 in the dusky path of a dream i went to seek the love who was mine in a former life. her house stood at the end of a desolate street. in the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch, and the pigeons were silent in their corner. she set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me. she raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "are you well, my friend?" i tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten. i thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind. tears shone in her eyes. she held up her right hand to me. i took it and stood silent. our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died. 63 traveller, must you go? the night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest. the lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, and the youthful eyes still awake. is the time for your parting come? traveller, must you go? we have not bound your feet with our entreating arms. your doors are open. your horse stands saddled at the gate. if we have tried to bar your passage it was but with our songs. did we ever try to hold you back it was but with our eyes. traveller, we are helpless to keep you. we have only our tears. what quenchless fire glows in your eyes? what restless fever runs in your blood? what call from the dark urges you? what awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky, that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart, silent and strange? if you do not care for merry meetings, if you must have peace, weary heart, we shall put our lamps out and silence our harps. we shall sit still in the dark in the rustle of leaves, and the tired moon will shed pale rays on your window. o traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart of the mid-night? 64 i spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road. now, in the cool of the evening, i knock at the door of the inn. it is deserted and in ruins. a grim _ashath_ tree spreads its hungry clutching roots through the gaping fissures of the walls. days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet. they spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands. they work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside. but no lighted lamp awaited me when i came here. the black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall. fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path. i am the guest of no one at the end of my day. the long night is before me, and i am tired. 65 is that your call again? the evening has come. weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love. do you call me? i had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night? somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the dark is one's own. must your voice cut through it and smite me? has the evening no music of sleep at your gate? do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower? do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden? must you call me, you unquiet one? then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep. let the lamp burn in the lonely house. let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home. i leave behind my dreams and i hasten to your call. 66 a wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate. before him the endless ocean roared. the garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures, mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning. maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for the search had become his life,- just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the unattainable- just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can never be reached- even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks still roamed in search of the touchstone. one day a village boy came up and asked, "tell me, where did you come at this golden chain about your waist?" the madman started--the chain that once was iron was verily gold; it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed. he struck his forehead wildly--where, o where had he without knowing it achieved success? it had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the chain, and to throw them away without looking to see if a change had come; thus the madman found and lost the touchstone. the sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold. the madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart in the dust, like a tree uprooted. 67 though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled for all songs to cease; though your companions have gone to their rest and you are tired; though fear broods in the dark and the face of the sky is veiled; yet, bird, o my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. that is not the gloom of the leaves of the forest, that is the sea swelling like a dark black snake. that is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashing foam. ah, where is the sunny green shore, where is your nest? bird, o my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. the lone night lies along your path, the dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills. the stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon swims the deep night. bird, o my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. there is no hope, no fear for you. there is no word, no whisper, no cry. there is no home, no bed for rest. there is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky. bird, o my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings. 68 none lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long. keep that in mind and rejoice. our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one long journey. one sole poet has not to sing one aged song. the flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever. brother, keep that in mind and rejoice. there must come a full pause to weave perfection into music. life droops toward its sunset to be drowned in the golden shadows. love must be called from its play to drink sorrow and be borne to the heaven of tears. brother, keep that in mind and rejoice. we hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by the passing winds. it quickens our blood and brightens our eyes to snatch kisses that would vanish if we delayed. our life is eager, our desires are keen, for time tolls the bell of parting. brother, keep that in mind and rejoice. there is not time for us to clasp a thing and crush it and fling it away to the dust. the hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts. our life is short; it yields but a few days for love. were it for work and drudgery it would be endlessly long. brother, keep that in mind and rejoice. beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleeting tune with our lives. knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time to complete it. all is done and finished in the eternal heaven. but earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by death. brother, keep that in mind and rejoice. 69 i hunt for the golden stag. you may smile, my friends, but i pursue the vision that eludes me. i run across hills and dales, i wander through nameless lands, because i am hunting for the golden stag. you come and buy in the market and go back to your homes laden with goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched me i know not when and where. i have no care in my heart; all my belongings i have left far behind me. i run across hills and dales, i wander through nameless lands- because i am hunting for the golden stag. 70 i remember a day in my childhood i floated a paper boat in the ditch. it was a wet day of july; i was alone and happy over my play. i floated my paper boat in the ditch. suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and rain poured in torrents. rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my boat. bitterly i thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me. the cloudy day of july is long today, and i have been musing over all those games in life wherein i was loser. i was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when suddenly i remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch. 71 the day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the river-bank. i had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny lost. but no, my brother, i have still something left. my fate has not cheated me of everything. the selling and buying are over. all the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time for me to go home. but, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll? do not fear, i have still something left. my fate has not cheated me of everything. the lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in the west bode no good. the hushed water waits for the wind. i hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me. o ferryman, you want your fee! yes, brother, i have still something left. my fate has not cheated me of everything. in the wayside under the tree sits the beggar. alas, he looks at my face with a timid hope! he thinks i am rich with the day's profit. yes, brother, i have still something left. my fate has not cheated me of everything. the night grows dark and the road lonely. fireflies gleam among the leaves. who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps? ah, i know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains. i will not disappoint you! for i still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me of everything. at midnight i reach home. my hands are empty. you are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and silent. like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love. ay, ay, my god, much remains still. my fate has not cheated me of everything. 72 with days of hard travail i raised a temple. it had no doors or windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones. i forgot all else, i shunned all the world, i gazed in rapt contemplation at the image i had set upon the altar. it was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil. the ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils. sleepless, i carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces, women with limbs like serpents. no passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village. the only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of incantations which i chanted. my mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses swooned in ecstasy. i knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the temple, and a pain stung me through the heart. the lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would fain hide themselves. i looked at the image on the altar. i saw it smiling and alive with the living touch of god. the night i had imprisoned had spread its wings and vanished. 73 infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust! you toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce. the gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect. the toys that you make for your children are fragile. you cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should i desert you for that? your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes. your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart. from your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality, that is why your eyes are ever wakeful. for ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is not built, but only its sad suggestion. over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears. i will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your love. i will worship you with labour. i have seen your tender face and i love your mournful dust, mother earth. 74 in the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight. thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with the music of the clouds and forests. but, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the musing moon. the blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it. and when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into dust. 75 at midnight the would-be ascetic announced: "this is the time to give up my home and seek for god. ah, who has held me so long in delusion here?" god whispered, "i," but the ears of the man were stopped. with a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed. the man said, "who are ye that have fooled me so long?" the voice said again, "they are god," but he heard it not. the baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother. god commanded, "stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he heard not. god sighed and complained, "why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?" 76 the fair was on before the temple. it had rained from the early morning and the day came to its end. brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smile of a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf. the shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter and noise. an endless throng of people came and jostled together. the road was muddy, the river in flood, the field under water in ceaseless rain. greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy's trouble--he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick. his wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting of men so pitiful. 77 the workman and his wife from the west country are busy digging to make bricks for the kiln. their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river; there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots and pans. her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on the high bank at her bidding. she goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, the shining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with her right--she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with the weight of the household cares. one day i saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched. in the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handful of earth, turning it round and round. near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank. it came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud, and the child started up and screamed. his sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up. she took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, and dividing her caresses between them bound in one bond of affection the offspring of beast and man. 78 it was in may. the sultry noon seemed endlessly long. the dry earth gaped with thirst in the heat. when i heard from the riverside a voice calling, "come, my darling!" i shut my book and opened the window to look out. i saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in water, calling it to its bath. i smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart. 79 i often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language. through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran the simple path by which their hearts visited each other. those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though their kinship has been long forgotten. yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection. it seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each other through the disguise. 80 with a glance of your eyes you could plunder all the wealth of songs struck from poets' harps, fair woman! but for their praises you have no ear, therefore i come to praise you. you could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world. but it is your loved ones, unknown to fame, whom you choose to worship, therefore i worship you. the perfection of your arms would add glory to kingly splendour with their touch. but you use them to sweep away the dust, and to make clean your humble home, therefore i am filled with awe. 81 why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, o death, my death? when the flowers droop in the evening and cattle come back to their stalls, you stealthily come to my side and speak words that i do not understand. is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsy murmur and cold kisses, o death, my death? will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding? will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks? is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not the night be on fire with your red torch-lights, o death, my death? come with your conch-shells sounding, come in the sleepless night. dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me. let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighing impatiently. raise my veil and look at my face proudly, o death, my death! 82 we are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and i. the night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the waves are raving at sea. we have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out, my bride and i. we sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from behind. my bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings to my breast. long have i served her tenderly. i made for her a bed of flowers and i closed the doors to shut out the rude light from her eyes. i kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor. she was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness. she answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her. to-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild. my bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and come out. her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her garland rustles over her breast. the push of death has swung her into life. we are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and i. 83 she dwelt on the hillside by the edge of a maize-field, near the spring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadows of ancient trees. the women came there to fill their jars, and travellers would sit there to rest and talk. she worked and dreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream. one evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes. we asked in wonder, "who are you?" he answered not but sat by the garrulous stream and silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt. our hearts quaked in fear and we came back home when it was night. next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring by the _deodar_ trees, they found the doors open in her hut, but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face? the empty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out in the corner. no one knew where she had fled to before it was morning--and the stranger had gone. in the month of may the sun grew strong and the snow melted, and we sat by the spring and wept. we wondered in our mind, "is there a spring in the land where she has gone and where she can fill her vessel in these hot thirsty days?" and we asked each other in dismay, "is there a land beyond these hills where we live?" it was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and i sat in her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit. when suddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtains drawn aside. "ah, it is she who comes. how are you, my child? are you happy? but where can you shelter under this open sky? and, alas, our spring is not here to allay your thirst." "here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencing hills,--this is the same stream grown into a river,--the same earth widened into a plain." "everything is here," i sighed, "only we are not." she smiled sadly and said, "you are in my heart." i woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and the rustling of the _deodars_ at night. 84 over the green and yellow rice-fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds followed by the swift chasing sun. the bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light they foolishly hover and hum. the ducks in the islands of the river clamour in joy for mere nothing. let none go back home, brothers, this morning, let none go to work. let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder space as we run. laughter floats in the air like foam on the flood. brothers, let us squander our morning in futile songs. 85 who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? i cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. open your doors and look abroad. from your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. in the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years. index of first words no. a wandering madman was seeking the touchstone 66 ah me, why did they build my house 4 ah, poet, the evening draws near 2 amidst the rush and roar of life 60 an unbelieving smile flits on your eyes 40 at midnight the would-be ascetic announced 75 come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet 11 come to us, youth, tell us truly 25 day after day he comes and goes away 20 do not go, my love, without asking my leave 34 do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend 24 free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love 48 hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes 16 have mercy upon your servant, my queen 1 he whispered, "my love, raise your eyes" 36 i am restless 5 i asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood 13 i hold her hands and press her to my breast 49 i hunt for the golden stag 69 i long to speak the deepest words 41 i love you, beloved 33 i often wonder where lie hidden 79 i plucked your flower, o world 57 i remember a day in my childhood 70 i run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest 15 i spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road 64 i try to weave a wreath all the morning 39 i was one among many women 56 i was walking by the road, i do not know why 14 if you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come 12 if you would have it so, i will end my singing 47 in the dusky path of a dream i went to seek the love 62 in the morning i cast my net into the sea 3 in the world's audience hall 74 infinite wealth is not yours 73 is that your call again 65 it was in may 78 it was mid-day when you want away 55 lest i should know you too easily, you play with me 35 let your work be, bride 10 love, my heart longs day and night 50 my heart, the bird of the wilderness 31 my love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic 38 no, my friends, i shall never be an ascetic 43 none lives for ever, brother 68 o mad, superbly drunk 42 o mother, the young prince is to pass by our door 7 o woman, you are not merely the handiwork of god 59 one morning in the flower garden a blind girl came 58 over the green and yellow rice-fields 84 peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet 61 reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners 44 she dwelt on the hillside 83 speak to me, my love 29 tell me if this be all true, my lover 32 the day is not yet done, the fair is not over 71 the fair was on before the temple 76 the tame bird was in a cage 6 the workman and his wife from the west country 77 the yellow bird sings in their tree 17 then finish the last song and let us leave 51 though the evening comes with slow steps 67 to the guests that must go bid god's speed 45 traveller, must you go 63 trust love even if it brings sorrow 27 we are to play the game of death to-night 82 what comes from your willing hands i take 26 when i go alone at night to my love-tryst 9 when she passed by me with quick steps 22 when the lamp went out by my bed 8 when the two sisters go to fetch water 18 where do you hurry with your basket 54 who are you, reader, reading my poems 85 why did he choose to come to my door 21 why did the lamp go out 52 why do you put me to shame with a look 53 why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets 23 why do you whisper so faintly in my ears 81 with a glance of your eyes you could plunder 80 with days of hard travail i raised a temple 72 would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck 37 you are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams 30 you left me and went on your way 46 you walked by the riverside path 19 your questioning eyes are sad 28 b. hare. this ebook was produced by chetan jain, viswas g and anand rao at bharat literature the gitanjali or 'song offerings' by rabindranath tagore (1861--1941), nobel prize for literature 1913, with an introduction by william b. yeats (1865--1939), nobel prize for literature 1923. first published in 1913. this work is in public domain according to the berne convention since january 1st 1992. rabindranath tagore gitanjali song offerings a collection of prose translations made by the author from the original bengali with an introduction by w. b. yeats to william rothenstein introduction a few days ago i said to a distinguished bengali doctor of medicine, 'i know no german, yet if a translation of a german poet had moved me, i would go to the british museum and find books in english that would tell me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. but though these prose translations from rabindranath tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years, i shall not know anything of his life, and of the movements of thought that have made them possible, if some indian traveller will not tell me.' it seemed to him natural that i should be moved, for he said, 'i read rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.' i said, 'an englishman living in london in the reign of richard the second had he been shown translations from petrarch or from dante, would have found no books to answer his questions, but would have questioned some florentine banker or lombard merchant as i question you. for all i know, so abundant and simple is this poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and i shall never know of it except by hearsay.' he answered, 'we have other poets, but none that are his equal; we call this the epoch of rabindranath. no poet seems to me as famous in europe as he is among us. he is as great in music as in poetry, and his songs are sung from the west of india into burma wherever bengali is spoken. he was already famous at nineteen when he wrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older, are still played in calcutta. i so much admire the completeness of his life; when he was very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would sit all day in his garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language'; and then he said with deep emotion, 'words can never express what i owed at seventeen to his love poetry. after that his art grew deeper, it became religious and philosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his hymns. he is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken out of life itself, and that is why we give him our love.' i may have changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. 'a little while ago he was to read divine service in one of our churches--we of the brahma samaj use your word 'church' in english--it was the largest in calcutta and not only was it crowded, but the streets were all but impassable because of the people.' other indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded strange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the same veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. when we were making the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? 'every morning at three--i know, for i have seen it'--one said to me, 'he sits immovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his reverie upon the nature of god. his father, the maha rishi, would sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the rowers waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey.' he then told me of mr. tagore's family and how for generations great men have come out of its cradles. 'today,' he said, 'there are gogonendranath and abanindranath tagore, who are artists; and dwijendranath, rabindranath's brother, who is a great philosopher. the squirrels come from the boughs and climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands.' i notice in these men's thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held that doctrine of nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon physical things. i said, 'in the east you know how to keep a family illustrious. the other day the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man who was arranging their chinese prints and said, ''that is the hereditary connoisseur of the mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family to hold the post.'' 'he answered, 'when rabindranath was a boy he had all round him in his home literature and music.' i thought of the abundance, of the simplicity of the poems, and said, 'in your country is there much propagandist writing, much criticism? we have to do so much, especially in my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we cannot help it. if our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and readers. four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste, whether in our own minds or in the minds of others.' 'i understand,' he replied, 'we too have our propagandist writing. in the villages they recite long mythological poems adapted from the sanskrit in the middle ages, and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their duties.' i have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in restaurants, and i have often had to close it lest some stranger would see how much it moved me. these lyrics-which are in the original, my indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical invention--display in their thought a world i have dreamed of all my live long. the work of a supreme culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. a tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. if the civilization of bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind which--as one divines--runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the beggar on the roads. when there was but one mind in england, chaucer wrote his _troilus and cressida_, and thought he had written to be read, or to be read out--for our time was coming on apace--he was sung by minstrels for a while. rabindranath tagore, like chaucer's forerunners, writes music for his words, and one understands at every moment that he is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of defence. these verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies' tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon the rivers. lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of god a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. at every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. the traveller in the read-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master's home-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to god. flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the indian july, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a chinese picture, is god himself. a whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us, seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image, as though we had walked in rossetti's willow wood, or heard, perhaps for the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream. since the renaissance the writing of european saints--however familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their thought--has ceased to hold our attention. we know that we must at last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? what have we in common with st. bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of switzerland, or with the violent rhetoric of the book of revelations? we would, if we might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy. 'i have got my leave. bid me farewell, my brothers! i bow to you all and take my departure. here i give back the keys of my door--and i give up all claims to my house. i only ask for last kind words from you. we were neighbours for long, but i received more than i could give. now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. a summons has come and i am ready for my journey.' and it is our own mood, when it is furthest from 'a kempis or john of the cross, that cries, 'and because i love this life, i know i shall love death as well.' yet it is not only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. we had not known that we loved god, hardly it may be that we believed in him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. 'entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment.' this is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to st. francis and to william blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history. we write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics--all dull things in the doing--while mr. tagore, like the indian civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. he often seems to contrast life with that of those who have loved more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him: 'men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. i sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is i want, i drop my eyes and answer them not.' at another time, remembering how his life had once a different shape, he will say, 'many an hour i have spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and i know not why this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.' an innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and us. at times i wonder if he has it from the literature of bengal or from religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his brother's hands, i find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a tristan or a pelanore. indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints, 'they build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. with withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. children have their play on the seashore of worlds. they know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.' w.b. yeats _september 1912_ gitanjali thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. this frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. this little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. at the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. when thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and i look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. all that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony--and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. i know thou takest pleasure in my singing. i know that only as a singer i come before thy presence. i touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which i could never aspire to reach. drunk with the joy of singing i forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. i know not how thou singest, my master! i ever listen in silent amazement. the light of thy music illumines the world. the life breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. the holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on. my heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. i would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and i cry out baffled. ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master! life of my life, i shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs. i shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind. i shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart. and it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act. i ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. the works that i have in hand i will finish afterwards. away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil. today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove. now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure. pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! i fear lest it droop and drop into the dust. i may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it. i fear lest the day end before i am aware, and the time of offering go by. though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time. my song has put off her adornments. she has no pride of dress and decoration. ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers. my poet's vanity dies in shame before thy sight. o master poet, i have sat down at thy feet. only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music. the child who is decked with prince's robes and who has jewelled chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every step. in fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world, and is afraid even to move. mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life. o fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! o beggar, to come beg at thy own door! leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in regret. thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath. it is unholy--take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. accept only what is offered by sacred love. here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. when i try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost. my heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost. leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? open thine eyes and see thy god is not before thee! he is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is breaking stones. he is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is covered with dust. put of thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil! deliverance? where is this deliverance to be found? our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all for ever. come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! what harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow. the time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long. i came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet. it is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune. the traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end. my eyes strayed far and wide before i shut them and said 'here art thou!' the question and the cry 'oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance 'i am!' the song that i came to sing remains unsung to this day. i have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. the time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. the blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. i have not seen his face, nor have i listened to his voice; only i have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house. the livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and i cannot ask him into my house. i live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. my desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through. day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked--this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind--saving me from perils of overmuch desire. there are times when i languidly linger and times when i awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me. day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire. i am here to sing thee songs. in this hall of thine i have a corner seat. in thy world i have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose. when the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing. when in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence. i have had my invitation to this world's festival, and thus my life has been blessed. my eyes have seen and my ears have heard. it was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and i have done all i could. now, i ask, has the time come at last when i may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation? i am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. that is why it is so late and why i have been guilty of such omissions. they come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but i evade them ever, for i am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. people blame me and call me heedless; i doubt not they are right in their blame. the market day is over and work is all done for the busy. those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. i am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone? in the busy moments of the noontide work i am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that i hope. if thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, i know not how i am to pass these long, rainy hours. i keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind. if thou speakest not i will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. i will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience. the morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky. then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves. on the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and i knew it not. my basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded. only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and i started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind. that vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion. i knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart. i must launch out my boat. the languid hours pass by on the shore--alas for me! the spring has done its flowering and taken leave. and now with the burden of faded futile flowers i wait and linger. the waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall. what emptiness do you gaze upon! do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore? in the deep shadows of the rainy july, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers. today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky. the woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house--do not pass by like a dream. art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? the sky groans like one in despair. i have no sleep tonight. ever and again i open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend! i can see nothing before me. i wonder where lies thy path! by what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend? if the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk. from the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night. in the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee. let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship. it is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening. he came and sat by my side but i woke not. what a cursed sleep it was, o miserable me! he came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies. alas, why are my nights all thus lost? ah, why do i ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep? light, oh where is the light? kindle it with the burning fire of desire! there is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame--is such thy fate, my heart? ah, death were better by far for thee! misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night. the sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. i know not what this is that stirs in me--i know not its meaning. a moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me. light, oh where is the light! kindle it with the burning fire of desire! it thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. the night is black as a black stone. let not the hours pass by in the dark. kindle the lamp of love with thy life. obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when i try to break them. freedom is all i want, but to hope for it i feel ashamed. i am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but i have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room. the shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; i hate it, yet hug it in love. my debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when i come to ask for my good, i quake in fear lest my prayer be granted. he whom i enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. i am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day i lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow. i take pride in this great wall, and i plaster it with dust and sand lest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care i take i lose sight of my true being. i came out alone on my way to my tryst. but who is this that follows me in the silent dark? i move aside to avoid his presence but i escape him not. he makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that i utter. he is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but i am ashamed to come to thy door in his company. 'prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?' 'it was my master,' said the prisoner. 'i thought i could outdo everybody in the world in wealth and power, and i amassed in my own treasure-house the money due to my king. when sleep overcame me i lay upon the bed that was for my lord, and on waking up i found i was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.' 'prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?' 'it was i,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this chain very carefully. i thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. thus night and day i worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes. when at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable, i found that it held me in its grip.' by all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. but it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. lest i forget them they never venture to leave me alone. but day passes by after day and thou art not seen. if i call not thee in my prayers, if i keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love. when it was day they came into my house and said, 'we shall only take the smallest room here.' they said, 'we shall help you in the worship of your god and humbly accept only our own share in his grace'; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek. but in the darkness of night i find they break into my sacred shrine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from god's altar. let only that little be left of me whereby i may name thee my all. let only that little be left of my will whereby i may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment. let only that little be left of me whereby i may never hide thee. let only that little of my fetters be left whereby i am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life--and that is the fetter of thy love. where the mind is without fear and the head is held high; where knowledge is free; where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls; where words come out from the depth of truth; where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection; where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action-into that heaven of freedom, my father, let my country awake. this is my prayer to thee, my lord--strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows. give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service. give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles. and give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love. i thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power,--that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity. but i find that thy will knows no end in me. and when old words die out on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders. that i want thee, only thee--let my heart repeat without end. all desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. as the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry--'i want thee, only thee'. as the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is--'i want thee, only thee'. when the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. when grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song. when tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest. when my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king. when desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, o thou holy one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder. the rain has held back for days and days, my god, in my arid heart. the horizon is fiercely naked--not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end. but call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair. let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother on the day of the father's wrath. where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? they push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. i wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. the morning time is past, and the noon. in the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. i sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is i want, i drop my eyes and answer them not. oh, how, indeed, could i tell them that for thee i wait, and that thou hast promised to come. how could i utter for shame that i keep for my dowry this poverty. ah, i hug this pride in the secret of my heart. i sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming--all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze. but time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? and only i who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing? early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and i, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end. in that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. is the time not come yet? are there works still to do? lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests. who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? the day was when i did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. and today when by chance i light upon them and see thy signature, i find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten. thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that i heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star. this is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along the road. my heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. from dawn till dusk i sit here before my door, and i know that of a sudden the happy moment will arrive when i shall see. in the meanwhile i smile and i sing all alone. in the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. have you not heard his silent steps? he comes, comes, ever comes. every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes. many a song have i sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, 'he comes, comes, ever comes.' in the fragrant days of sunny april through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes. in the rainy gloom of july nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes. in sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine. i know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye. in many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret. i know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. it is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and i feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. the night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. i fear lest in the morning he suddenly come to my door when i have fallen asleep wearied out. oh friends, leave the way open to him-forbid him not. if the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, i pray. i wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door. ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish. ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. the first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. and let my return to myself be immediate return to him. the morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed. we sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. we quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by. the sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. the shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and i laid myself down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass. my companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. they crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. all honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. i gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation--in the shadow of a dim delight. the repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. i forgot for what i had travelled, and i surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. at last, when i woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, i saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. how i had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard! you came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. i was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. you came down and stood at my cottage door. masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. but the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. one plaintive little strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door. i had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and i wondered who was this king of all kings! my hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and i stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. the chariot stopped where i stood. thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. i felt that the luck of my life had come at last. then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say 'what hast thou to give to me?' ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! i was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet i slowly took out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee. but how great my surprise when at the day's end i emptied my bag on the floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. i bitterly wept and wished that i had had the heart to give thee my all. the night darkened. our day's works had been done. we thought that the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. only some said the king was to come. we laughed and said 'no, it cannot be!' it seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. we put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. only some said, 'it is the messenger!' we laughed and said 'no, it must be the wind!' there came a sound in the dead of the night. we sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. the earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep. only some said it was the sound of wheels. we said in a drowsy murmur, 'no, it must be the rumbling of clouds!' the night was still dark when the drum sounded. the voice came 'wake up! delay not!' we pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. some said, 'lo, there is the king's flag!' we stood up on our feet and cried 'there is no time for delay!' the king has come--but where are lights, where are wreaths? where is the throne to seat him? oh, shame! oh utter shame! where is the hall, the decorations? someone has said, 'vain is this cry! greet him with empty hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!' open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. the thunder roars in the sky. the darkness shudders with lightning. bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. with the storm has come of a sudden our king of the fearful night. i thought i should ask of thee--but i dared not--the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. thus i waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. and like a beggar i searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. ah me, what is it i find? what token left of thy love? it is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. it is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. the young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. the morning bird twitters and asks, 'woman, what hast thou got?' no, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water--it is thy dreadful sword. i sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. i can find no place to hide it. i am ashamed to wear it, frail as i am, and it hurts me when i press it to my bosom. yet shall i bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine. from now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. thou hast left death for my companion and i shall crown him with my life. thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. from now i leave off all petty decorations. lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. no more doll's decorations for me! beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured jewels. but more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. it quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash. beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, o lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. i asked nothing from thee; i uttered not my name to thine ear. when thou took'st thy leave i stood silent. i was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. they called me and shouted, 'come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' but i languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. i heard not thy steps as thou camest. thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low--'ah, i am a thirsty traveller.' i started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. the leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of _babla_ flowers came from the bend of the road. i stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. indeed, what had i done for thee to keep me in remembrance? but the memory that i could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. the morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, _neem_ leaves rustle overhead and i sit and think and think. languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns? wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain! at the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all alone. deceive him not. wake, oh awaken! what if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun--what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst-is there no joy in the deep of your heart? at every footfall of yours, will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. thus it is that thou hast come down to me. o thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if i were not? thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. in my heart is the endless play of thy delight. in my life thy will is ever taking shape. and for this, thou who art the king of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate my heart. and for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light! ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth. the butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light. the light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in profusion. mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without measure. the heaven's river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad. let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song--the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word. yes, i know, this is nothing but thy love, o beloved of my heart-this golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead. the morning light has flooded my eyes--this is thy message to my heart. thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart has touched thy feet. on the seashore of endless worlds children meet. the infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. on the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. they build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. with withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. children have their play on the seashore of worlds. they know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. the sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. the sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. on the seashore of endless worlds children meet. tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. on the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children. the sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where it comes? yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. from there it comes to kiss baby's eyes. the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does anybody know where it was born? yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps. the sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does anybody know where it was hidden so long? yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs. when i bring to you coloured toys, my child, i understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints--when i give coloured toys to you, my child. when i sing to make you dance i truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth--when i sing to make you dance. when i bring sweet things to your greedy hands i know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice--when i bring sweet things to your greedy hands. when i kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, i surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body--when i kiss you to make you smile. thou hast made me known to friends whom i knew not. thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. i am uneasy at heart when i have to leave my accustomed shelter; i forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. when one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. oh, grant me my prayer that i may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many. on the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses i asked her, 'maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? my house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light!' she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. 'i have come to the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.' i stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide. in the silence of gathering night i asked her, 'maiden, your lights are all lit--then where do you go with your lamp? my house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light.' she raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. 'i have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate my lamp to the sky.' i stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void. in the moonless gloom of midnight i ask her, 'maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? my house is all dark and lonesome--lend me your light.' she stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. 'i have brought my light,' she said, 'to join the carnival of lamps.' i stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights. what divine drink wouldst thou have, my god, from this overflowing cup of my life? my poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony? thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me. she who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my god, folded in my final song. words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. i have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart. many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair. there was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition. thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well. o thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. there comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. and there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. but there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. there is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. with fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging. it is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, o thou spotless and serene. and that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. the same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. it is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. it is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. i feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. and my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? all things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on. keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away--colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. that i should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance--such is thy _maya_. thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. this thy self-separation has taken body in me. the poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. in me is thy own defeat of self. this screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. the great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. with the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. he it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. he it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. he it is who weaves the web of this _maya_ in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch i forget myself. days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. deliverance is not for me in renunciation. i feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. my world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. no, i will never shut the doors of my senses. the delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. the day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. it is time that i go to the stream to fill my pitcher. the evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. ah, it calls me out into the dusk. in the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river. i know not if i shall come back home. i know not whom i shall chance to meet. there at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. the river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. the flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. thy worship does not impoverish the world. from the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee. day after day, o lord of my life, shall i stand before thee face to face. with folded hands, o lord of all worlds, shall i stand before thee face to face. under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall i stand before thee face to face. in this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall i stand before thee face to face. and when my work shall be done in this world, o king of kings, alone and speechless shall i stand before thee face to face. i know thee as my god and stand apart--i do not know thee as my own and come closer. i know thee as my father and bow before thy feet--i do not grasp thy hand as my friend's. i stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade. thou art the brother amongst my brothers, but i heed them not, i divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. in pleasure and in pain i stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. i shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. when the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!' but one cried of a sudden--'it seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.' the golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay--'yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!' from that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy! only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves--'vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!' if it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that i have missed thy sight--let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. as my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that i have gained nothing--let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. when i sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when i spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me--let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. when my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that i have not invited thee to my house--let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours. i am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, o my sun ever-glorious! thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus i count months and years separated from thee. if this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders. and again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, i shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent. on many an idle day have i grieved over lost time. but it is never lost, my lord. thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. i was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. in the morning i woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. time is endless in thy hands, my lord. there is none to count thy minutes. days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. thou knowest how to wait. thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. we have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. we are too poor to be late. and thus it is that time goes by while i give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. at the end of the day i hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but i find that yet there is time. mother, i shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. the stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. but this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when i bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace. it is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. it is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of july. it is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. when the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? where were their armour and their arms? they looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. when the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did they hide their power? they had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. death, thy servant, is at my door. he has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home. the night is dark and my heart is fearful--yet i will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. it is thy messenger who stands at my door. i will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart. he will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. in desperate hope i go and search for her in all the corners of my room; i find her not. my house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained. but infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her i have to come to thy door. i stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and i lift my eager eyes to thy face. i have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish--no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. deity of the ruined temple! the broken strings of _vina_ sing no more your praise. the bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. the air is still and silent about you. in your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. it brings the tidings of flowers--the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. in the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come. only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless neglect. no more noisy, loud words from me--such is my master's will. henceforth i deal in whispers. the speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. men hasten to the king's market. all the buyers and sellers are there. but i have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work. let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. full many an hour have i spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and i know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence! on the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him? oh, i will set before my guest the full vessel of my life--i will never let him go with empty hands. all the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleanings of my busy life will i place before him at the close of my days when death will knock at my door. o thou the last fulfilment of life, death, my death, come and whisper to me! day after day i have kept watch for thee; for thee have i borne the joys and pangs of life. all that i am, that i have, that i hope and all my love have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. one final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. the flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. after the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her lord alone in the solitude of night. i know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. when i think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks and i see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures. rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. things that i longed for in vain and things that i got--let them pass. let me but truly possess the things that i ever spurned and overlooked. i have got my leave. bid me farewell, my brothers! i bow to you all and take my departure. here i give back the keys of my door--and i give up all claims to my house. i only ask for last kind words from you. we were neighbours for long, but i received more than i could give. now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. a summons has come and i am ready for my journey. at this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! the sky is flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful. ask not what i have with me to take there. i start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. i shall put on my wedding garland. mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way i have no fear in mind. the evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the king's gateway. i was not aware of the moment when i first crossed the threshold of this life. what was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight! when in the morning i looked upon the light i felt in a moment that i was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. and because i love this life, i know i shall love death as well. the child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. when i go from hence let this be my parting word, that what i have seen is unsurpassable. i have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am i blessed--let this be my parting word. in this playhouse of infinite forms i have had my play and here have i caught sight of him that is formless. my whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come--let this be my parting word. when my play was with thee i never questioned who thou wert. i knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. in the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and lead me running from glade to glade. on those days i never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come upon me? the world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. i will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. it is never in my power to escape unconquered. i surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. i surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. from the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall i receive at thy feet. when i give up the helm i know that the time has come for thee to take it. what there is to do will be instantly done. vain is this struggle. then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. these my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them i forget all else again and again. but i shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. i dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. no more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. the days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves. and now i am eager to die into the deathless. into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings i shall take this harp of my life. i shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. ever in my life have i sought thee with my songs. it was they who led me from door to door, and with them have i felt about me, searching and touching my world. it was my songs that taught me all the lessons i ever learnt; they showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. they guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have the brought me in the evening at the end of my journey? i boasted among men that i had known you. they see your pictures in all works of mine. they come and ask me, 'who is he?' i know not how to answer them. i say, 'indeed, i cannot tell.' they blame me and they go away in scorn. and you sit there smiling. i put my tales of you into lasting songs. the secret gushes out from my heart. they come and ask me, 'tell me all your meanings.' i know not how to answer them. i say, 'ah, who knows what they mean!' they smile and go away in utter scorn. and you sit there smiling. in one salutation to thee, my god, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. like a rain-cloud of july hung low with its burden of unshed showers let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. 