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. songs of kabîr translated by rabindranath tagore introduction by evelyn underhill new york, the macmillan company 1915 introduction the poet kabîr, a selection from whose songs is here for the first time offered to english readers, is one of the most interesting personalities in the history of indian mysticism. born in or near benares, of mohammedan parents, and probably about the year 1440, he became in early life a disciple of the celebrated hindu ascetic râmânanda. râmânanda had brought to northern india the religious revival which râmânuja, the great twelfth-century reformer of brâhmanism, had initiated in the south. this revival was in part a reaction against the increasing formalism of the orthodox cult, in part an assertion of the demands of the heart as against the intense intellectualism of the vedânta philosophy, the exaggerated monism which that philosophy proclaimed. it took in râmânuja's preaching the form of an ardent personal devotion to the god vishnu, as representing the personal aspect of the divine nature: that mystical "religion of love" which everywhere makes its appearance at a certain level of spiritual culture, and which creeds and philosophies are powerless to kill. though such a devotion is indigenous in hinduism, and finds expression in many passages of the bhagavad gîtâ, there was in its mediæval revival a large element of syncretism. râmânanda, through whom its spirit is said to have reached kabîr, appears to have been a man of wide religious culture, and full of missionary enthusiasm. living at the moment in which the impassioned poetry and deep philosophy of the great persian mystics, attâr, sâdî, jalâlu'ddîn rûmî, and hâfiz, were exercising a powerful influence on the religious thought of india, he dreamed of reconciling this intense and personal mohammedan mysticism with the traditional theology of brâhmanism. some have regarded both these great religious leaders as influenced also by christian thought and life: but as this is a point upon which competent authorities hold widely divergent views, its discussion is not attempted here. we may safely assert, however, that in their teachings, two--perhaps three--apparently antagonistic streams of intense spiritual culture met, as jewish and hellenistic thought met in the early christian church: and it is one of the outstanding characteristics of kabîr's genius that he was able in his poems to fuse them into one. a great religious reformer, the founder of a sect to which nearly a million northern hindus still belong, it is yet supremely as a mystical poet that kabîr lives for us. his fate has been that of many revealers of reality. a hater of religious exclusivism, and seeking above all things to initiate men into the liberty of the children of god, his followers have honoured his memory by re-erecting in a new place the barriers which he laboured to cast down. but his wonderful songs survive, the spontaneous expressions of his vision and his love; and it is by these, not by the didactic teachings associated with his name, that he makes his immortal appeal to the heart. in these poems a wide range of mystical emotion is brought into play: from the loftiest abstractions, the most otherworldly passion for the infinite, to the most intimate and personal realization of god, expressed in homely metaphors and religious symbols drawn indifferently from hindu and mohammedan belief. it is impossible to say of their author that he was brâhman or sûfî, vedântist or vaishnavite. he is, as he says himself, "at once the child of allah and of râm." that supreme spirit whom he knew and adored, and to whose joyous friendship he sought to induct the souls of other men, transcended whilst he included all metaphysical categories, all credal definitions; yet each contributed something to the description of that infinite and simple totality who revealed himself, according to their measure, to the faithful lovers of all creeds. kabîr's story is surrounded by contradictory legends, on none of which reliance can be placed. some of these emanate from a hindu, some from a mohammedan source, and claim him by turns as a sûfî and a brâhman saint. his name, however, is practically a conclusive proof of moslem ancestry: and the most probable tale is that which represents him as the actual or adopted child of a mohammedan weaver of benares, the city in which the chief events of his life took place. in fifteenth-century benares the syncretistic tendencies of bhakti religion had reached full development. sûfîs and brâhmans appear to have met in disputation: the most spiritual members of both creeds frequenting the teachings of râmânanda, whose reputation was then at its height. the boy kabîr, in whom the religious passion was innate, saw in râmânanda his destined teacher; but knew how slight were the chances that a hindu guru would accept a mohammedan as disciple. he therefore hid upon the steps of the river ganges, where râmânanda was accustomed to bathe; with the result that the master, coming down to the water, trod upon his body unexpectedly, and exclaimed in his astonishment, "ram! ram!"--the name of the incarnation under which he worshipped god. kabîr then declared that he had received the mantra of initiation from râmânanda's lips, and was by it admitted to discipleship. in spite of the protests of orthodox brâhmans and mohammedans, both equally annoyed by this contempt of theological landmarks, he persisted in his claim; thus exhibiting in action that very principle of religious synthesis which râmânanda had sought to establish in thought. râmânanda appears to have accepted him, and though mohammedan legends speak of the famous sûfî pîr, takkî of jhansî, as kabîr's master in later life, the hindu saint is the only human teacher to whom in his songs he acknowledges indebtedness. the little that we know of kabîr's life contradicts many current ideas concerning the oriental mystic. of the stages of discipline through which he passed, the manner in which his spiritual genius developed, we are completely ignorant. he seems to have remained for years the disciple of râmânanda, joining in the theological and philosophical arguments which his master held with all the great mullahs and brâhmans of his day; and to this source we may perhaps trace his acquaintance with the terms of hindu and sûfî philosophy. he may or may not have submitted to the traditional education of the hindu or the sûfî contemplative: it is clear, at any rate, that he never adopted the life of the professional ascetic, or retired from the world in order to devote himself to bodily mortifications and the exclusive pursuit of the contemplative life. side by side with his interior life of adoration, its artistic expression in music and words--for he was a skilled musician as well as a poet--he lived the sane and diligent life of the oriental craftsman. all the legends agree on this point: that kabîr was a weaver, a simple and unlettered man, who earned his living at the loom. like paul the tentmaker, boehme the cobbler, bunyan the tinker, tersteegen the ribbon-maker, he knew how to combine vision and industry; the work of his hands helped rather than hindered the impassioned meditation of his heart. hating mere bodily austerities, he was no ascetic, but a married man, the father of a family--a circumstance which hindu legends of the monastic type vainly attempt to conceal or explain--and it was from out of the heart of the common life that he sang his rapturous lyrics of divine love. here his works corroborate the traditional story of his life. again and again he extols the life of home, the value and reality of diurnal existence, with its opportunities for love and renunciation; pouring contempt--upon the professional sanctity of the yogi, who "has a great beard and matted locks, and looks like a goat," and on all who think it necessary to flee a world pervaded by love, joy, and beauty--the proper theatre of man's quest--in order to find that one reality who has "spread his form of love throughout all the world." [footnote: cf. poems nos. xxi, xl, xliii, lxvi, lxxvi.] it does not need much experience of ascetic literature to recognize the boldness and originality of this attitude in such a time and place. from the point of view of orthodox sanctity, whether hindu or mohammedan, kabîr was plainly a heretic; and his frank dislike of all institutional religion, all external observance--which was as thorough and as intense as that of the quakers themselves--completed, so far as ecclesiastical opinion was concerned, his reputation as a dangerous man. the "simple union" with divine reality which he perpetually extolled, as alike the duty and the joy of every soul, was independent both of ritual and of bodily austerities; the god whom he proclaimed was "neither in kaaba nor in kailâsh." those who sought him needed not to go far; for he awaited discovery everywhere, more accessible to "the washerwoman and the carpenter" than to the self--righteous holy man. [footnote: poems i, ii, xli.] therefore the whole apparatus of piety, hindu and moslem alike--the temple and mosque, idol and holy water, scriptures and priests--were denounced by this inconveniently clear-sighted poet as mere substitutes for reality; dead things intervening between the soul and its love-/* the images are all lifeless, they cannot speak: i know, for i have cried aloud to them. the purâna and the koran are mere words: lifting up the curtain, i have seen. */ [footnote: poems xlii, lxv, lxvii.] this sort of thing cannot be tolerated by any organized church; and it is not surprising that kabîr, having his head-quarters in benares, the very centre of priestly influence, was subjected to considerable persecution. the well-known legend of the beautiful courtesan sent by brâhmans to tempt his virtue, and converted, like the magdalen, by her sudden encounter with the initiate of a higher love, pre serves the memory of the fear and dislike with which he was regarded by the ecclesiastical powers. once at least, after the performance of a supposed miracle of healing, he was brought before the emperor sikandar lodi, and charged with claiming the possession of divine powers. but sikandar lodi, a ruler of considerable culture, was tolerant of the eccentricities of saintly persons belonging to his own faith. kabîr, being of mohammedan birth, was outside the authority of the brâhmans, and technically classed with the sûfîs, to whom great theological latitude was allowed. therefore, though he was banished in the interests of peace from benares, his life was spared. this seems to have happened in 1495, when he was nearly sixty years of age; it is the last event in his career of which we have definite knowledge. thenceforth he appears to have moved about amongst various cities of northern india, the centre of a group of disciples; continuing in exile that life of apostle and poet of love to which, as he declares in one of his songs, he was destined "from the beginning of time." in 1518, an old man, broken in health, and with hands so feeble that he could no longer make the music which he loved, he died at maghar near gorakhpur. a beautiful legend tells us that after his death his mohammedan and hindu disciples disputed the possession of his body; which the mohammedans wished to bury, the hindus to burn. as they argued together, kabîr appeared before them, and told them to lift the shroud and look at that which lay beneath. they did so, and found in the place of the corpse a heap of flowers; half of which were buried by the mohammedans at maghar, and half carried by the hindus to the holy city of benares to be burned--fitting conclusion to a life which had made fragrant the most beautiful doctrines of two great creeds. ii the poetry of mysticism might be defined on the one hand as a temperamental reaction to the vision of reality: on the other, as a form of prophecy. as it is the special vocation of the mystical consciousness to mediate between two orders, going out in loving adoration towards god and coming home to tell the secrets of eternity to other men; so the artistic self-expression of this consciousness has also a double character. it is love-poetry, but love-poetry which is often written with a missionary intention. kabîr's songs are of this kind: out-births at once of rapture and of charity. written in the popular hindi, not in the literary tongue, they were deliberately addressed--like the vernacular poetry of jacopone da todì and richard rolle--to the people rather than to the professionally religious class; and all must be struck by the constant employment in them of imagery drawn from the common life, the universal experience. it is by the simplest metaphors, by constant appeals to needs, passions, relations which all men understand--the bridegroom and bride, the guru and disciple, the pilgrim, the farmer, the migrant bird-that he drives home his intense conviction of the reality of the soul's intercourse with the transcendent. there are in his universe no fences between the "natural" and "supernatural" worlds; everything is a part of the creative play of god, and therefore--even in its humblest details--capable of revealing the player's mind. this willing acceptance of the here-and-now as a means of representing supernal realities is a trait common to the greatest mystics. for them, when they have achieved at last the true theopathetic state, all aspects of the universe possess equal authority as sacramental declarations of the presence of god; and their fearless employment of homely and physical symbols--often startling and even revolting to the unaccustomed taste--is in direct proportion to the exaltation of their spiritual life. the works of the great sûfîs, and amongst the christians of jacopone da todì, ruysbroeck, boehme, abound in illustrations of this law. therefore we must not be surprised to find in kabîr's songs--his desperate attempts to communicate his ecstasy and persuade other men to share it--a constant juxtaposition of concrete and metaphysical language; swift alternations between the most intensely anthropomorphic, the most subtly philosophical, ways of apprehending man's communion with the divine. the need for this alternation, and its entire naturalness for the mind which employs it, is rooted in his concept, or vision, of the nature of god; and unless we make some attempt to grasp this, we shall not go far in our understanding of his poems. kabîr belongs to that small group of supreme mystics--amongst whom st. augustine, ruysbroeck, and the sûfî poet jalâlu'ddîn rûmî are perhaps the chief--who have achieved that which we might call the synthetic vision of god. these have resolved the perpetual opposition between the personal and impersonal, the transcendent and immanent, static and dynamic aspects of the divine nature; between the absolute of philosophy and the "sure true friend" of devotional religion. they have done this, not by taking these apparently incompatible concepts one after the other; but by ascending to a height of spiritual intuition at which they are, as ruysbroeck said, "melted and merged in the unity," and perceived as the completing opposites of a perfect whole. this proceeding entails for them--and both kabîr and ruysbroeck expressly acknowledge it--a universe of three orders: becoming, being, and that which is "more than being," i.e., god. [footnote: nos. vii and xlix.] god is here felt to be not the final abstraction, but the one actuality. he inspires, supports, indeed inhabits, both the durational, conditioned, finite world of becoming and the unconditioned, non-successional, infinite world of being; yet utterly transcends them both. he is the omnipresent reality, the "all-pervading" within whom "the worlds are being told like beads." in his personal aspect he is the "beloved fakir," teaching and companioning each soul. considered as immanent spirit, he is "the mind within the mind." but all these are at best partial aspects of his nature, mutually corrective: as the persons in the christian doctrine of the trinity--to which this theological diagram bears a striking resemblance--represent different and compensating experiences of the divine unity within which they are resumed. as ruysbroeck discerned a plane of reality upon which "we can speak no more of father, son, and holy spirit, but only of one being, the very substance of the divine persons"; so kabîr says that "beyond both the limited and the limitless is he, the pure being." [footnote: no. vii.] brahma, then, is the ineffable fact compared with which "the distinction of the conditioned from the unconditioned is but a word": at once the utterly transcendent one of absolutist philosophy, and the personal lover of the individual soul--"common to all and special to each," as one christian mystic has it. the need felt by kabîr for both these ways of describing reality is a proof of the richness and balance of his spiritual experience; which neither cosmic nor anthropomorphic symbols, taken alone, could express. more absolute than the absolute, more personal than the human mind, brahma therefore exceeds whilst he includes all the concepts of philosophy, all the passionate intuitions of the heart. he is the great affirmation, the font of energy, the source of life and love, the unique satisfaction of desire. his creative word is the _om_ or "everlasting yea." the negative philosophy which strips from the divine nature all its attributes and defining him only by that which he is not--reduces him to an "emptiness," is abhorrent to this most vital of poets.--brahma, he says, "may never be found in abstractions." he is the one love who pervades the world., discerned in his fullness only by the eyes of love; and those who know him thus share, though they may never tell, the joyous and ineffable secret of the universe. [footnote: nos. vii, xxvi, lxxvi, xc.] now kabîr, achieving this synthesis between the personal and cosmic aspects of the divine nature, eludes the three great dangers which threaten mystical religion. first, he escapes the excessive emotionalism, the tendency to an exclusively anthropomorphic devotion, which results from an unrestricted cult of divine personality, especially under an incarnational form; seen in india in the exaggerations of krishna worship, in europe in the sentimental extravagances of certain christian saints. next, he is protected from the soul-destroying conclusions of pure monism, inevitable if its logical implications are pressed home: that is, the identity of substance between god and the soul, with its corollary of the total absorption of that soul in the being of god as the goal of the spiritual life. for the thorough-going monist the soul, in so far as it is real, is substantially identical with god; and the true object of existence is the making patent of this latent identity, the realization which finds expression in the vedântist formula "that art thou." but kabîr says that brahma and the creature are "ever distinct, yet ever united"; that the wise man knows the spiritual as well as the material world to "be no more than his footstool." [footnote: nos. vii and ix.] the soul's union with him is a love union, a mutual inhabitation; that essentially dualistic relation which all mystical religion expresses, not a self-mergence which leaves no place for personality. this eternal distinction, the mysterious union-in-separateness of god and the soul, is a necessary doctrine of all sane mysticism; for no scheme which fails to find a place for it can represent more than a fragment of that soul's intercourse with the spiritual world. its affirmation was one of the distinguishing features of the vaishnavite reformation preached by râmânuja; the principle of which had descended through râmânanda to kabîr. last, the warmly human and direct apprehension of god as the supreme object of love, the soul's comrade, teacher, and bridegroom, which is so passionately and frequently expressed in kabîr's poems, balances and controls those abstract tendencies which are inherent in the metaphysical side of his vision of reality: and prevents it from degenerating into that sterile worship of intellectual formulæ which became the curse of the vedântist school. for the mere intellectualist, as for the mere pietist, he has little approbation. [footnote: cf. especially nos. lix, lxvii, lxxv, xc, xci.] love is throughout his "absolute sole lord": the unique source of the more abundant life which he enjoys, and the common factor which unites the finite and infinite worlds. all is soaked in love: that love which he described in almost johannine language as the "form of god." the whole of creation is the play of the eternal lover; the living, changing, growing expression of brahma's love and joy. as these twin passions preside over the generation of human life, so "beyond the mists of pleasure and pain" kabîr finds them governing the creative acts of god. his manifestation is love; his activity is joy. creation springs from one glad act of affirmation: the everlasting yea, perpetually uttered within the depths of the divine nature. [footnote: nos. xvii, xxvi, lxxvi, lxxxii.] in accordance with this concept of the universe as a love-game which eternally goes forward, a progressive manifestation of brahma--one of the many notions which he adopted from the common stock of hindu religious ideas, and illuminated by his poetic genius--movement, rhythm, perpetual change, forms an integral part of kabîr's vision of reality. though the eternal and absolute is ever present to his consciousness, yet his concept of the divine nature is essentially dynamic. it is by the symbols of motion that he most often tries to convey it to us: as in his constant reference to dancing, or the strangely modern picture of that eternal swing of the universe which is "held by the cords of love." [footnote: no. xvi.] it is a marked characteristic of mystical literature that the great contemplatives, in their effort to convey to us the nature of their communion with the supersensuous, are inevitably driven to employ some form of sensuous imagery: coarse and inaccurate as they know such imagery to be, even at the best. our normal human consciousness is so completely committed to dependence on the senses, that the fruits of intuition itself are instinctively referred to them. in that intuition it seems to the mystics that all the dim cravings and partial apprehensions of sense find perfect fulfilment. hence their constant declaration that they _see_ the uncreated light, they _hear_ the celestial melody, they _taste_ the sweetness of the lord, they know an ineffable fragrance, they feel the very contact of love. "him verily seeing and fully feeling, him spiritually hearing and him delectably smelling and sweetly swallowing," as julian of norwich has it. in those amongst them who develop psycho-sensorial automatisms, these parallels between sense and spirit may present themselves to consciousness in the form of hallucinations: as the light seen by suso, the music heard by rolle, the celestial perfumes which filled st. catherine of siena's cell, the physical wounds felt by st. francis and st. teresa. these are excessive dramatizations of the symbolism under which the mystic tends instinctively to represent his spiritual intuition to the surface consciousness. here, in the special sense-perception which he feels to be most expressive of reality, his peculiar idiosyncrasies come out. now kabîr, as we might expect in one whose reactions to the spiritual order were so wide and various, uses by turn all the symbols of sense. he tells us that he has "seen without sight" the effulgence of brahma, tasted the divine nectar, felt the ecstatic contact of reality, smelt the fragrance of the heavenly flowers. but he was essentially a poet and musician: rhythm and harmony were to him the garments of beauty and truth. hence in his lyrics he shows himself to be, like richard rolle, above all things a musical mystic. creation, he says again and again, is full of music: it _is_ music. at the heart of the universe "white music is blossoming": love weaves the melody, whilst renunciation beats the time. it can be heard in the home as well as in the heavens; discerned by the ears of common men as well as by the trained senses of the ascetic. moreover, the body of every man is a lyre on which brahma, "the source of all music," plays. everywhere kabîr discerns the "unstruck music of the infinite"--that celestial melody which the angel played to st. francis, that ghostly symphony which filled the soul of rolle with ecstatic joy. [footnote: nos. xvii, xviii, xxxix, xli, liv, lxxvi, lxxxiii, lxxxix, xcvii.] the one figure which he adopts from the hindu pantheon and constantly uses, is that of krishna the divine flute player. [footnote: nos. l, liii, lxviii.] he sees the supernal music, too, in its visual embodiment, as rhythmical movement: that mysterious dance of the universe before the face of brahma, which is at once an act of worship and an expression of the infinite rapture of the immanent god.' yet in this wide and rapturous vision of the universe kabîr never loses touch with diurnal existence, never forgets the common life. his feet are firmly planted upon earth; his lofty and passionate apprehensions are perpetually controlled by the activity of a sane and vigorous intellect, by the alert commonsense so often found in persons of real mystical genius. the constant insistence on simplicity and directness, the hatred of all abstractions and philosophizings,[footnote: nos. xxvi, xxxii, lxxvi] the ruthless criticism of external religion: these are amongst his most marked characteristics. god is the root whence all manifestations, "material" and "spiritual," alike proceed; [footnote: nos. lxxv, lxxviii, lxxx, xc.] and god is the only need of man--"happiness shall be yours when you come to the root." [footnote: no. lxxx.] hence to those who keep their eye on the "one thing needful," denominations, creeds, ceremonies, the conclusions of philosophy, the disciplines of asceticism, are matters of comparative indifference. they represent merely the different angles from which the soul may approach that simple union with brahma which is its goal; and are useful only in so faras they contribute to this consummation. so thorough-going is kabîr's eclecticism, that he seems by turns vedântist and vaishnavite, pantheist and transcendentalist, brâhman and sûfî. in the effort to tell the truth about that ineffable apprehension, so vast and yet so near, which controls his life, he seizes and twines together--as he might have woven together contrasting threads upon his loom--symbols and ideas drawn from the most violent and conflicting philosophies and faiths. all are needed, if he is ever to suggest the character of that one whom the upanishad called "the sun-coloured being who is beyond this darkness": as all the colours of the spectrum are needed if we would demonstrate the simple richness of white light. in thus adapting traditional materials to his own use he follows a method common amongst the mystics; who seldom exhibit any special love for originality of form. they will pour their wine into almost any vessel that comes to hand: generally using by preference--and lifting to new levels of beauty and significance--the religious or philosophic formulæ current in their own day. thus we find that some of kabîr's finest poems have as their subjects the commonplaces of hindu philosophy and religion: the lîlâ or sport of god, the ocean of bliss, the bird of the soul, mâyâ, the hundred-petalled lotus, and the "formless form." many, again, are soaked in sûfî imagery and feeling. others use as their material the ordinary surroundings and incidents of indian life: the temple bells, the ceremony of the lamps, marriage, suttee, pilgrimage, the characters of the seasons; all felt by him in their mystical aspect, as sacraments of the soul's relation with brahma. in many of these a particularly beautiful and intimate feeling for nature is shown. [footnote: nos. xv, xxiii, lxvii, lxxxvii, xcvii.] in the collection of songs here translated there will be found examples which illustrate nearly every aspect of kabîr's thought, and all the fluctuations of the mystic's emotion: the ecstasy, the despair, the still beatitude, the eager self-devotion, the flashes of wide illumination, the moments of intimate love. his wide and deep vision of the universe, the "eternal sport" of creation (lxxxii), the worlds being "told like beads" within the being of god (xiv, xvi, xvii, lxxvi), is here seen balanced by his lovely and delicate sense of intimate communion with the divine friend, lover, teacher of the soul (x, xi, xxiii, xxxv, li, lxxxv, lxxxvi, lxxxviii, xcii, xciii; above all, the beautiful poem xxxiv). as these apparently paradoxical views of reality are resolved in brâhma, so all other opposites are reconciled in him: bondage and liberty, love and renunciation, pleasure and pain (xvii, xxv, xl, lxxix). union with him is the one thing that matters to the soul, its destiny and its need (li, i, ii, liv, lxx, lxxiv, xciii, xcvi); and this union, this discovery of god, is the simplest and most natural of all things, if we would but grasp it (xli, xlvi, lvi, lxxii, lxxvi, lxxviii, xcvii). the union, however, is brought about by love, not by knowledge or ceremonial observances (xxxviii, liv, lv, lix, xci); and the apprehension which that union confers is ineffable--"neither this nor that," as ruysbroeck has it (ix, xlvi, lxxvi). real worship and communion is in spirit and in truth (xl, xli, lvi, lxiii, lxv, lxx), therefore idolatry is an insult to the divine lover (xlii, lxix) and the devices of professional sanctity are useless apart from charity and purity of soul (liv, lxv, lxvi). since all things, and especially the heart of man, are god-inhabited, god-possessed (xxvi, lvi, lxxvi, lxxxix, xcvii), he may best be found in the here-and-now: in the normal. human, bodily existence, the "mud" of material life (iii, iv, vi, xxi, xxxix, xl, xliii, xlviii, lxxii). "we can reach the goal without crossing the road" (lxxvi)--not the cloister but the home is the proper theatre of man's efforts: and if he cannot find god there, he need not hope for success by going farther afield. "in the home is reality." there love and detachment, bondage and freedom, joy and pain play by turns upon the soul; and it is from their conflict that the unstruck music of the infinite proceeds. kabîr says: "none but brahma can evoke its melodies." "this version of kabîr's songs is chiefly the work of mr. rabîndranâth tagore, the trend of whose mystical genius makes him--as all who read these poems will see--a peculiarly sympathetic interpreter of kabîr's vision and thought. it has been based upon the printed hindî text with bengali translation of mr. kshiti mohan sen; who has gathered from many sources--sometimes from books and manuscripts, sometimes from the lips of wandering ascetics and minstrels--a large collection of poems and hymns to which kabîr's name is attached, and carefully sifted the authentic songs from the many spurious works now attributed to him. these painstaking labours alone have made the present undertaking possible. we have also had before us a manuscript english translation of 116 songs made by mr. ajit kumâr chakravarty from mr. kshiti mohan sen's text, and a prose essay upon kabîr from the same hand. from these we have derived great assistance. a considerable number of readings from the translation have been adopted by us; whilst several of the facts mentioned in the essay have been incorporated into this introduction. our most grateful thanks are due to mr. ajit kumar chakravarty for the extremely generous and unselfish manner in which he has placed his work at our disposal. e. u. the reference of the headlines of the poems is to: sântiniketana; kabîr by srî kshitimohan sen, 4 parts, brahmacharyâsrama, bolpur, 1910-1911. for some assistance in normalizing the transliteration we are indebted to professor j. f. blumhardt. kabir's poems i i. 13. _mo ko kahân dhûnro bande_ o servant, where dost thou seek me? lo! i am beside thee. i am neither in temple nor in mosque: i am neither in kaaba nor in kailash: neither am i in rites and ceremonies, nor in yoga and renunciation. if thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at once see me: thou shalt meet me in a moment of time. kabîr says, "o sadhu! god is the breath of all breath." ii i. 16. _santan jât na pûcho nirguniyân_ it is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs; for the priest, the warrior. the tradesman, and all the thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for god. it is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be; the barber has sought god, the washerwoman, and the carpenter- even raidas was a seeker after god. the rishi swapacha was a tanner by caste. hindus and moslems alike have achieved that end, where remains no mark of distinction. iii i. 57. _sâdho bhâî, jîval hî karo âs'â_ o friend! hope for him whilst you live, know whilst you live, understand whilst you live: for in life deliverance abides. if your bonds be not broken whilst living, what hope of deliverance in death? it is but an empty dream, that the soul shall have union with him because it has passed from the body: if he is found now, he is found then, if not, we do but go to dwell in the city of death. if you have union now, you shall have it hereafter. bathe in the truth, know the true guru, have faith in the true name! kabîr says: "it is the spirit of the quest which helps; i am the slave of this spirit of the quest." iv i. 58. _bâgo nâ jâ re nâ jâ_ do not go to the garden of flowers! o friend! go not there; in your body is the garden of flowers. take your seat on the thousand petals of the lotus, and there gaze on the infinite beauty. v i. 63. _avadhû, mâyâ tajî na jây_ tell me, brother, how can i renounce maya? when i gave up the tying of ribbons, still i tied my garment about me: when i gave up tying my garment, still i covered my body in its folds. so, when i give up passion, i see that anger remains; and when i renounce anger, greed is with me still; and when greed is vanquished, pride and vainglory remain; when the mind is detached and casts maya away, still it clings to the letter. kabîr says, "listen to me, dear sadhu! the true path is rarely found." vi i. 83. _candâ jhalkai yahi ghat mâhîn_ the moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it: the moon is within me, and so is the sun. the unstruck drum of eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it. so long as man clamours for the _i_ and the _mine_, his works are as naught: when all love of the _i_ and the _mine_ is dead, then the work of the lord is done. for work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge: when that comes, then work is put away. the flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers. the musk is in the deer, but it seeks it not within itself: it wanders in quest of grass. vii i. 85. _sâdho, brahm alakh lakhâyâ_ when he himself reveals himself, brahma brings into manifestation that which can never be seen. as the seed is in the plant, as the shade is in the tree, as the void is in the sky, as infinite forms are in the void- so from beyond the infinite, the infinite comes; and from the infinite the finite extends. the creature is in brahma, and brahma is in the creature: they are ever distinct, yet ever united. he himself is the tree, the seed, and the germ. he himself is the flower, the fruit, and the shade. he himself is the sun, the light, and the lighted. he himself is brahma, creature, and maya. he himself is the manifold form, the infinite space; he is the breath, the word, and the meaning. he himself is the limit and the limitless: and beyond both the limited and the limitless is he, the pure being. he is the immanent mind in brahma and in the creature. the supreme soul is seen within the soul, the point is seen within the supreme soul, and within the point, the reflection is seen again. kabîr is blest because he has this supreme vision! viii i. 101. _is ghat antar bâg bagîce_ within this earthen vessel are bowers and groves, and within it is the creator: within this vessel are the seven oceans and the unnumbered stars. the touchstone and the jewel-appraiser are within; and within this vessel the eternal soundeth, and the spring wells up. kabîr says: "listen to me, my friend! my beloved lord is within." ix i. 104. _aisâ lo nahîn taisâ lo_ o how may i ever express that secret word? o how can i say he is not like this, and he is like that? if i say that he is within me, the universe is ashamed: if i say that he is without me, it is falsehood. he makes the inner and the outer worlds to be indivisibly one; the conscious and the unconscious, both are his footstools. he is neither manifest nor hidden, he is neither revealed nor unrevealed: there are no words to tell that which he is. x i. 121. _tohi mori lagan lagâye re phakîr wâ_ to thee thou hast drawn my love, o fakir! i was sleeping in my own chamber, and thou didst awaken me; striking me with thy voice, o fakir! i was drowning in the deeps of the ocean of this world, and thou didst save me: upholding me with thine arm, o fakir! only one word and no second--and thou hast made me tear off all my bonds, o fakir! kabîr says, "thou hast united thy heart to my heart, o fakir!" xi i. 131. _nis' din khelat rahî sakhiyân sang_ i played day and night with my comrades, and now i am greatly afraid. so high is my lord's palace, my heart trembles to mount its stairs: yet i must not be shy, if i would enjoy his love. my heart must cleave to my lover; i must withdraw my veil, and meet him with all my body: mine eyes must perform the ceremony of the lamps of love. kabîr says: "listen to me, friend: he understands who loves. if you feel not love's longing for your beloved one, it is vain to adorn your body, vain to put unguent on your eyelids." xii ii. 24. _hamsâ, kaho purâtan vât_ tell me, o swan, your ancient tale. from what land do you come, o swan? to what shore will you fly? where would you take your rest, o swan, and what do you seek? even this morning, o swan, awake, arise, follow me! there is a land where no doubt nor sorrow have rule: where the terror of death is no more. there the woods of spring are a-bloom, and the fragrant scent "he is i" is borne on the wind: there the bee of the heart is deeply immersed, and desires no other joy. xiii ii. 37. _angadhiyâ devâ_ o lord increate, who will serve thee? every votary offers his worship to the god of his own creation: each day he receives service- none seek him, the perfect: brahma, the indivisible lord. they believe in ten avatars; but no avatar can be the infinite spirit, for he suffers the results of his deeds: the supreme one must be other than this. the yogi, the sanyasi, the ascetics, are disputing one with another: kabîr says, "o brother! he who has seen that radiance of love, he is saved." xiv ii. 56. _dariyâ kî lahar dariyâo hai jî_ the river and its waves are one surf: where is the difference between the river and its waves? when the wave rises, it is the water; and when it falls, it is the same water again. tell me, sir, where is the distinction? because it has been named as wave, shall it no longer be considered as water? within the supreme brahma, the worlds are being told like beads: look upon that rosary with the eyes of wisdom. xv ii. 57. _jânh khelat vasant riturâj_ where spring, the lord of the seasons, reigneth, there the unstruck music sounds of itself, there the streams of light flow in all directions; few are the men who can cross to that shore! there, where millions of krishnas stand with hands folded, where millions of vishnus bow their heads, where millions of brahmâs are reading the vedas, where millions of shivas are lost in contemplation, where millions of indras dwell in the sky, where the demi-gods and the munis are unnumbered, where millions of saraswatis, goddess of music, play on the vina- there is my lord self-revealed: and the scent of sandal and flowers dwells in those deeps. xvi ii. 59. _jânh, cet acet khambh dôû_ between the poles of the conscious and the unconscious, there has the mind made a swing: thereon hang all beings and all worlds, and that swing never ceases its sway. millions of beings are there: the sun and the moon in their courses are there: millions of ages pass, and the swing goes on. all swing! the sky and the earth and the air and the water; and the lord himself taking form: and the sight of this has made kabîr a servant. xvii ii. 61. _grah candra tapan jot varat hai_ the light of the sun, the moon, and the stars shines bright: the melody of love swells forth, and the rhythm of love's detachment beats the time. day and night, the chorus of music fills the heavens; and kabîr says "my beloved one gleams like the lightning flash in the sky." do you know how the moments perform their adoration? waving its row of lamps, the universe sings in worship day and night, there are the hidden banner and the secret canopy: there the sound of the unseen bells is heard. kabîr says: "there adoration never ceases; there the lord of the universe sitteth on his throne." the whole world does its works and commits its errors: but few are the lovers who know the beloved. the devout seeker is he who mingles in his heart the double currents of love and detachment, like the mingling of the streams of ganges and jumna; in his heart the sacred water flows day and night; and thus the round of births and deaths is brought to an end. behold what wonderful rest is in the supreme spirit! and he enjoys it, who makes himself meet for it. held by the cords of love, the swing of the ocean of joy sways to and fro; and a mighty sound breaks forth in song. see what a lotus blooms there without water! and kabîr says "my heart's bee drinks its nectar." what a wonderful lotus it is, that blooms at the heart of the spinning wheel of the universe! only a few pure souls know of its true delight. music is all around it, and there the heart partakes of the joy of the infinite sea. kabîr says: "dive thou into that ocean of sweetness: thus let all errors of life and of death flee away." behold how the thirst of the five senses is quenched there! and the three forms of misery are no more! kabîr says: "it is the sport of the unattainable one: look within, and behold how the moon-beams of that hidden one shine in you." there falls the rhythmic beat of life and death: rapture wells forth, and all space is radiant with light. there the unstruck music is sounded; it is the music of the love of the three worlds. there millions of lamps of sun and of moon are burning; there the drum beats, and the lover swings in play. there love-songs resound, and light rains in showers; and the worshipper is entranced in the taste of the heavenly nectar. look upon life and death; there is no separation between them, the right hand and the left hand are one and the same. kabîr says: "there the wise man is speechless; for this truth may never be found in vadas or in books." i have had my seat on the self-poised one, i have drunk of the cup of the ineffable, i have found the key of the mystery, i have reached the root of union. travelling by no track, i have come to the sorrowless land: very easily has the mercy of the great lord come upon me. they have sung of him as infinite and unattainable: but i in my meditations have seen him without sight. that is indeed the sorrowless land, and none know the path that leads there: only he who is on that path has surely transcended all sorrow. wonderful is that land of rest, to which no merit can win; it is the wise who has seen it, it is the wise who has sung of it. this is the ultimate word: but can any express its marvellous savour? he who has savoured it once, he knows what joy it can give. kabîr says: "knowing it, the ignorant man becomes wise, and the wise man becomes speechless and silent, the worshipper is utterly inebriated, his wisdom and his detachment are made perfect; he drinks from the cup of the inbreathings and the outbreathings of love." there the whole sky is filled with sound, and there that music is made without fingers and without strings; there the game of pleasure and pain does not cease. kabîr says: "if you merge your life in the ocean of life, you will find your life in the supreme land of bliss." what a frenzy of ecstasy there is in every hour! and the worshipper is pressing out and drinking the essence of the hours: he lives in the life of brahma. i speak truth, for i have accepted truth in life; i am now attached to truth, i have swept all tinsel away. kabîr says: "thus is the worshipper set free from fear; thus have all errors of life and of death left him." there the sky is filled with music: there it rains nectar: there the harp-strings jingle, and there the drums beat. what a secret splendour is there, in the mansion of the sky! there no mention is made of the rising and the setting of the sun; in the ocean of manifestation, which is the light of love, day and night are felt to be one. joy for ever, no sorrow,--no struggle! there have i seen joy filled to the brim, perfection of joy; no place for error is there. kabîr says: "there have i witnessed the sport of one bliss!" i have known in my body the sport of the universe: i have escaped from the error of this world.. the inward and the outward are become as one sky, the infinite and the finite are united: i am drunken with the sight of this all! this light of thine fulfils the universe: the lamp of love that burns on the salver of knowledge. kabîr says: "there error cannot enter, and the conflict of life and death is felt no more." xviii ii. 77. _maddh âkas' âp jahân baithe_ the middle region of the sky, wherein the spirit dwelleth, is radiant with the music of light; there, where the pure and white music blossoms, my lord takes his delight. in the wondrous effulgence of each hair of his body, the brightness of millions of suns and of moons is lost. on that shore there is a city, where the rain of nectar pours and pours, and never ceases. kabîr says: "come, o dharmadas! and see my great lord's durbar." xix ii. 20. _paramâtam guru nikat virâjatn_ o my heart! the supreme spirit, the great master, is near you: wake, oh wake! run to the feet of your beloved: for your lord stands near to your head. you have slept for unnumbered ages; this morning will you not wake? xx ii. 22. _man tu pâr utar kânh jaiho_ to what shore would you cross, o my heart? there is no traveller before you, there is no road: where is the movement, where is the rest, on that shore? there is no water; no boat, no boatman, is there; there is not so much as a rope to tow the boat, nor a man to draw it. no earth, no sky, no time, no thing, is there: no shore, no ford! there, there is neither body nor mind: and where is the place that shall still the thirst of the soul? you shall find naught in that emptiness. be strong, and enter into your own body: for there your foothold is firm. consider it well, o my heart! go not elsewhere, kabîr says: "put all imaginations away, and stand fast in that which you are." xxi ii. 33. _ghar ghar dîpak barai_ lamps burn in every house, o blind one! and you cannot see them. one day your eyes shall suddenly be opened, and you shall see: and the fetters of death will fall from you. there is nothing to say or to hear, there is nothing to do: it is he who is living, yet dead, who shall never die again. because he lives in solitude, therefore the yogi says that his home is far away. your lord is near: yet you are climbing the palm-tree to seek him. the brâhman priest goes from house to house and initiates people into faith: alas! the true fountain of life is beside you., and you have set up a stone to worship. kabîr says: "i may never express how sweet my lord is. yoga and the telling of beads, virtue and vice--these are naught to him." xxii ii. 38. _sâdho, so satgur mohi bhâwai_ o brother, my heart yearns for that true guru, who fills the cup of true love, and drinks of it himself, and offers it then to me. he removes the veil from the eyes, and gives the true vision of brahma: he reveals the worlds in him, and makes me to hear the unstruck music: he shows joy and sorrow to be one: he fills all utterance with love. kabîr says: "verily he has no fear, who has such a guru to lead him to the shelter of safety!" xxiii ii. 40. _tinwir sâñjh kâ gahirâ âwai_ the shadows of evening fall thick and deep, and the darkness of love envelops the body and the mind. open the window to the west, and be lost in the sky of love; drink the sweet honey that steeps the petals of the lotus of the heart. receive the waves in your body: what splendour is in the region of the sea! hark! the sounds of conches and bells are rising. kabîr says: "o brother, behold! the lord is in this vessel of my body." xxiv ii. 48. _jis se rahani apâr jagat men_ more than all else do i cherish at heart that love which makes me to live a limitless life in this world. it is like the lotus, which lives in the water and blooms in the water: yet the water cannot touch its petals, they open beyond its reach. it is like a wife, who enters the fire at the bidding of love. she burns and lets others grieve, yet never dishonours love. this ocean of the world is hard to cross: its waters are very deep. kabîr says: "listen to me, o sadhu! few there are who have reached its end." xxv ii. 45. _hari ne apnâ âp chipâyâ_ my lord hides himself, and my lord wonderfully reveals himself: my lord has encompassed me with hardness, and my lord has cast down my limitations. my lord brings to me words of sorrow and words of joy, and he himself heals their strife. i will offer my body and mind to my lord: i will give up my life, but never can i forget my lord! xxvi ii. 75. _ônkâr siwae kôî sirjai_ all things are created by the om; the love-form is his body. he is without form, without quality, without decay: seek thou union with him! but that formless god takes a thousand forms in the eyes of his creatures: he is pure and indestructible, his form is infinite and fathomless, he dances in rapture, and waves of form arise from his dance. the body and the mind cannot contain themselves, when they are touched by his great joy. he is immersed in all consciousness, all joys, and all sorrows; he has no beginning and no end; he holds all within his bliss. xxvii ii. 81. _satgur sôî dayâ kar dînhâ_ it is the mercy of my true guru that has made me to know the unknown; i have learned from him how to walk without feet, to see without eyes, to hear without ears, to drink without mouth, to fly without wings; i have brought my love and my meditation into the land where there is no sun and moon, nor day and night. without eating, i have tasted of the sweetness of nectar; and without water, i have quenched my thirst. where there is the response of delight, there is the fullness of joy. before whom can that joy be uttered? kabîr says: "the guru is great beyond words, and great is the good fortune of the disciple." xxviii ii. 85. _nirgun âge sargun nâcai_ before the unconditioned, the conditioned dances: "thou and i are one!" this trumpet proclaims. the guru comes, and bows down before the disciple: this is the greatest of wonders. xxix ii. 87. _kabîr kab se bhaye vairâgî_ gorakhnath asks kabîr: "tell me, o kabîr, when did your vocation begin? where did your love have its rise?" kabîr answers: "when he whose forms are manifold had not begun his play: when there was no guru, and no disciple: when the world was not spread out: when the supreme one was alone- then i became an ascetic; then, o gorakh, my love was drawn to brahma. brahma did not hold the crown on his head; the god vishnu was not anointed as king; the power of shiva was still unborn; when i was instructed in yoga. i became suddenly revealed in benares, and râmânanda illumined me; i brought with me the thirst for the infinite, and i have come for the meeting with him. in simplicity will i unite with the simple one; my love will surge up. o gorakh, march thou with his music!" xxx ii. 95. _yâ tarvar men ek pakherû_ on this tree is a bird: it dances in the joy of life. none knows where it is: and who knows what the burden of its music may be? where the branches throw a deep shade, there does it have its nest: and it comes in the evening and flies away in the morning, and says not a word of that which it means. none tell me of this bird that sings within me. it is neither coloured nor colourless: it has neither form nor outline: it sits in the shadow of love. it dwells within the unattainable, the infinite, and the eternal; and no one marks when it comes and goes. kabîr says: "o brother sadhu! deep is the mystery. let wise men seek to know where rests that bird." xxxi ii. 100. _nis` din sâlai ghâw_ a sore pain troubles me day and night, and i cannot sleep; i long for the meeting with my beloved, and my father's house gives me pleasure no more. the gates of the sky are opened, the temple is revealed: i meet my husband, and leave at his feet the offering of my body and my mind. xxxii ii. 103. _nâco re mero man, matta hoy_ dance, my heart! dance to-day with joy. the strains of love fill the days and the nights with music, and the world is listening to its melodies: mad with joy, life and death dance to the rhythm of this music. the hills and the sea and the earth dance. the world of man dances in laughter and tears. why put on the robe of the monk, and live aloof from the world in lonely pride? behold! my heart dances in the delight of a hundred arts; and the creator is well pleased. xxxiii ii. 105. _man mast huâ tab kyon bole_ where is the need of words, when love has made drunken the heart? i have wrapped the diamond in my cloak; why open it again and again? when its load was light, the pan of the balance went up: now it is full, where is the need for weighing? the swan has taken its flight to the lake beyond the mountains; why should it search for the pools and ditches any more? your lord dwells within you: why need your outward eyes be opened? kabîr says: "listen, my brother! my lord, who ravishes my eyes, has united himself with me." xxxiv ii. 110. _mohi tohi lâgî kaise chute_ how could the love between thee and me sever? as the leaf of the lotus abides on the water: so thou art my lord, and i am thy servant. as the night-bird chakor gazes all night at the moon: so thou art my lord and i am thy servant. from the beginning until the ending of time, there is love between thee and me; and how shall such love be extinguished? kabîr says: "as the river enters into the ocean, so my heart touches thee." xxxv ii. 113. _vâlam, âwo hamâre geh re_ my body and my mind are grieved for the want of thee; o my beloved! come to my house. when people say i am thy bride, i am ashamed; for i have not touched thy heart with my heart. then what is this love of mine? i have no taste for food, i have no sleep; my heart is ever restless within doors and without. as water is to the thirsty, so is the lover to the bride. who is there that will carry my news to my beloved? kabîr is restless: he is dying for sight of him. xxxvi ii. 126. _jâg piyârî, ab kân sowai_ o friend, awake, and sleep no more! the night is over and gone, would you lose your day also? others, who have wakened, have received jewels; o foolish woman! you have lost all whilst you slept. your lover is wise, and you are foolish, o woman! you never prepared the bed of your husband: o mad one! you passed your time in silly play. your youth was passed in vain, for you did not know your lord; wake, wake! see! your bed is empty: he left you in the night. kabîr says: "only she wakes, whose heart is pierced with the arrow of his music." xxxvii i. 36. _sûr parkâs', tanh rain kahân pâïye_ where is the night, when the sun is shining? if it is night, then the sun withdraws its light. where knowledge is, can ignorance endure? if there be ignorance, then knowledge must die. if there be lust, how can love be there? where there is love, there is no lust. lay hold on your sword, and join in the fight. fight, o my brother, as long as life lasts. strike off your enemy's head, and there make an end of him quickly: then come, and bow your head at your king's durbar. he who is brave, never forsakes the battle: he who flies from it is no true fighter. in the field of this body a great war goes forward, against passion, anger, pride, and greed: it is in the kingdom of truth, contentment and purity, that this battle is raging; and the sword that rings forth most loudly is the sword of his name. kabîr says: "when a brave knight takes the field, a host of cowards is put to flight. it is a hard fight and a weary one, this fight of the truth-seeker: for the vow of the truth-seeker is more hard than that of the warrior, or of the widowed wife who would follow her husband. for the warrior fights for a few hours, and the widow's struggle with death is soon ended: but the truth-seeker's battle goes on day and night, as long as life lasts it never ceases." xxxviii i. 50. _bhram kâ tâlâ lagâ mahal re_ the lock of error shuts the gate, open it with the key of love: thus, by opening the door, thou shalt wake the beloved. kabîr says: "o brother! do not pass by such good fortune as this." xxxix i. 59. _sâdho, yah tan thâth tanvure ka_ o friend! this body is his lyre; he tightens its strings, and draws from it the melody of brahma. if the strings snap and the keys slacken, then to dust must this instrument of dust return: kabîr says: "none but brahma can evoke its melodies." xl i. 65. _avadhû bhûle ko ghar lâwe_ he is dear to me indeed who can call back the wanderer to his home. in the home is the true union, in the home is enjoyment of life: why should i forsake my home and wander in the forest? if brahma helps me to realize truth, verily i will find both bondage and deliverance in home. he is dear to me indeed who has power to dive deep into brahma; whose mind loses itself with ease in his contemplation. he is dear to me who knows brahma, and can dwell on his supreme truth in meditation; and who can play the melody of the infinite by uniting love and renunciation in life. kabîr says: "the home is the abiding place; in the home is reality; the home helps to attain him who is real. so stay where you are, and all things shall come to you in time." xli i. 76. _santo, sahaj samâdh bhalî_ o sadhu! the simple union is the best. since the day when i met with my lord, there has been no end to the sport of our love. i shut not my eyes, i close not my ears, i do not mortify my body; i see with eyes open and smile, and behold his beauty everywhere: i utter his name, and whatever i see, it reminds me of him; whatever i do., it becomes his worship. the rising and the setting are one to me; all contradictions are solved. wherever i go, i move round him, all i achieve is his service: when i lie down, i lie prostrate at his feet. he is the only adorable one to me: i have none other. my tongue has left off impure words, it sings his glory day and night: whether i rise or sit down, i can never forget him; for the rhythm of his music beats in my ears. kabîr says: "my heart is frenzied, and i disclose in my soul what is hidden. i am immersed in that one great bliss which transcends all pleasure and pain." xlii i. 79. _tîrath men to sab pânî hai_ there is nothing but water at the holy bathing places; and i know that they are useless, for i have bathed in them. the images are all lifeless, they cannot speak; i know, for i have cried aloud to them. the purana and the koran are mere words; lifting up the curtain, i have seen. kabîr gives utterance to the words of experience; and he knows very well that all other things are untrue. xliii i. 82. _pânî vic mîn piyâsî_ i laugh when i hear that the fish in the water is thirsty: you do not see that the real is in your home, and you wander from forest to forest listlessly! here is the truth! go where you will, to benares or to mathura; if you do not find your soul, the world is unreal to you. xliv i. 93. _gagan math gaib nisân gade_ the hidden banner is planted in the temple of the sky; there the blue canopy decked with the moon and set with bright jewels is spread. there the light of the sun and the moon is shining: still your mind to silence before that splendour. kabîr says: "he who has drunk of this nectar, wanders like one who is mad." xlv i. 97. _sâdho, ko hai kânh se âyo_ who are you, and whence do you come? where dwells that supreme spirit, and how does he have his sport with all created things? the fire is in the wood; but who awakens it suddenly? then it turns to ashes, and where goes the force of the fire? the true guru teaches that he has neither limit nor infinitude. kabîr says: "brahma suits his language to the understanding of his hearer." xlvi i. 98. _sâdho, sahajai kâyâ s'odho_ o sadhu! purify your body in the simple way. as the seed is within the banyan tree, and within the seed are the flowers, the fruits, and the shade: so the germ is within the body, and within that germ is the body again. the fire, the air, the water, the earth, and the aether; you cannot have these outside of him. o, kazi, o pundit, consider it well: what is there that is not in the soul? the water-filled pitcher is placed upon water, it has water within and without. it should not be given a name, lest it call forth the error of dualism. kabîr says: "listen to the word, the truth, which is your essence. he speaks the word to himself; and he himself is the creator." xlvii i. 102. _tarvar ek mûl vin thâdâ_ there is a strange tree, which stands without roots and bears fruits without blossoming; it has no branches and no leaves, it is lotus all over. two birds sing there; one is the guru, and the other the disciple: the disciple chooses the manifold fruits of life and tastes them, and the guru beholds him in joy. what kabîr says is hard to understand: "the bird is beyond seeking, yet it is most clearly visible. the formless is in the midst of all forms. i sing the glory of forms." xlviii i. 107. _calat mansâ acal kînhî_ i have stilled my restless mind, and my heart is radiant: for in thatness i have seen beyond that-ness. in company i have seen the comrade himself. living in bondage, i have set myself free: i have broken away from the clutch of all narrowness. kabîr says: "i have attained the unattainable, and my heart is coloured with the colour of love." xlix i. 105. _jo dîsai, so to hai nâhîn_ that which you see is not: and for that which is, you have no words. unless you see, you believe not: what is told you you cannot accept. he who is discerning knows by the word; and the ignorant stands gaping. some contemplate the formless, and others meditate on form: but the wise man knows that brahma is beyond both. that beauty of his is not seen of the eye: that metre of his is not heard of the ear. kabîr says: "he who has found both love and renunciation never descends to death." l i. 126. _muralî bajat akhand sadâye_ the flute of the infinite is played without ceasing, and its sound is love: when love renounces all limits, it reaches truth. how widely the fragrance spreads! it has no end, nothing stands in its way. the form of this melody is bright like a million suns: incomparably sounds the vina, the vina of the notes of truth. li i. 129. _sakhiyo, ham hûn bhâî vâlamâs'î_ dear friend, i am eager to meet my beloved! my youth has flowered, and the pain of separation from him troubles my breast. i am wandering yet in the alleys of knowledge without purpose, but i have received his news in these alleys of knowledge. i have a letter from my beloved: in this letter is an unutterable message, and now my fear of death is done away. kabîr says: "o my loving friend! i have got for my gift the deathless one." lii i. 130. _sâîn vin dard kareje hoy_ when i am parted from my beloved, my heart is full of misery: i have no comfort in the day, i have no sleep in the night. to whom shall i tell my sorrow? the night is dark; the hours slip by. because my lord is absent, i start up and tremble with fear. kabîr says: "listen, my friend! there is no other satisfaction, save in the encounter with the beloved." liii i. 122. _kaum muralî s'abd s'un ânand bhayo_ what is that flute whose music thrills me with joy? the flame burns without a lamp; the lotus blossoms without a root; flowers bloom in clusters; the moon-bird is devoted to the moon; with all its heart the rain-bird longs for the shower of rain; but upon whose love does the lover concentrate his entire life? liv i. 112. _s'untâ nahî dhun kî khabar_ have you not heard the tune which the unstruck music is playing? in the midst of the chamber the harp of joy is gently and sweetly played; and where is the need of going without to hear it? if you have not drunk of the nectar of that one love, what boots it though you should purge yourself of all stains? the kazi is searching the words of the koran, and instructing others: but if his heart be not steeped in that love, what does it avail, though he be a teacher of men? the yogi dyes his garments with red: but if he knows naught of that colour of love, what does it avail though his garments be tinted? kabîr says: "whether i be in the temple or the balcony, in the camp or in the flower garden, i tell you truly that every moment my lord is taking his delight in me." lv i. 73. _bhakti kâ mârag jhînâ re_ subtle is the path of love! therein there is no asking and no not-asking, there one loses one's self at his feet, there one is immersed in the joy of the seeking: plunged in the deeps of love as the fish in the water. the lover is never slow in offering his head for his lord's service. kabîr declares the secret of this love. lvi i. 68. _bhâi kôî satguru sant kahâwaî_ he is the real sadhu, who can reveal the form of the formless to the vision of these eyes: who teaches the simple way of attaining him, that is other than rites or ceremonies: who does not make you close the doors, and hold the breath, and renounce the world: who makes you perceive the supreme spirit wherever the mind attaches itself: who teaches you to be still in the midst of all your activities. ever immersed in bliss, having no fear in his mind, he keeps the spirit of union in the midst of all enjoyments. the infinite dwelling of the infinite being is everywhere: in earth, water, sky, and air: firm as the thunderbolt, the seat of the seeker is established above the void. he who is within is without: i see him and none else. lvii i. 66. _sâdho, s'abd sâdhnâ kîjai_ receive that word from which the universe springeth! that word is the guru; i have heard it, and become the disciple. how many are there who know the meaning of that word? o sadhu! practise that word! the vedas and the puranas proclaim it, the world is established in it, the rishis and devotees speak of it: but none knows the mystery of the word. the householder leaves his house when he hears it, the ascetic comes back to love when he hears it, the six philosophies expound it, the spirit of renunciation points to that word, from that word the world-form has sprung, that word reveals all. kabîr says: "but who knows whence the word cometh? lviii i. 63. _pîle pyâlâ, ho matwâlâ_ empty the cup! o be drunken! drink the divine nectar of his name! kabîr says: "listen to me, dear sadhu! from the sole of the foot to the crown of the head this mind is filled with poison." lix i. 52. _khasm na cînhai bâwari_ o man, if thou dost not know thine own lord, whereof art thou so proud? put thy cleverness away: mere words shall never unite thee to him. do not deceive thyself with the witness of the scriptures: love is something other than this, and he who has sought it truly has found it. lx i. 56. _sukh sindh kî sair kâ_ the savour of wandering in the ocean of deathless life has rid me of all my asking: as the tree is in the seed, so all diseases are in this asking. lxi i. 48. _sukh sâgar men âîke_ when at last you are come to the ocean of happiness, do not go back thirsty. wake, foolish man! for death stalks you. here is pure water before you; drink it at every breath. do not follow the mirage on foot, but thirst for the nectar; dhruva, prahlad, and shukadeva have drunk of it, and also raidas has tasted it: the saints are drunk with love, their thirst is for love. kabîr says: "listen to me, brother! the nest of fear is broken. not for a moment have you come face to face with the world: you are weaving your bondage of falsehood, your words are full of deception: with the load of desires which you. hold on your head, how can you be light?" kabîr says: "keep within you truth, detachment, and love." lxii i. 35. _satî ko kaun s'ikhâwtâ hai_ who has ever taught the widowed wife to burn herself on the pyre of her dead husband? and who has ever taught love to find bliss in renunciation? lxiii i. 39. _are man, dhîraj kâhe na dharai_ why so impatient, my heart? he who watches over birds, beasts, and insects, he who cared for you whilst you were yet in your mother's womb, shall he not care for you now that you are come forth? oh my heart, how could you turn from the smile of your lord and wander so far from him? you have left your beloved and are thinking of others: and this is why all your work is in vain. lxiv i. 117. _sâîn se lagan kathin hai, bhâî_ now hard it is to meet my lord! the rain-bird wails in thirst for the rain: almost she dies of her longing, yet she would have none other water than the rain. drawn by the love of music, the deer moves forward: she dies as she listens to the music, yet she shrinks not in fear. the widowed wife sits by the body of her dead husband: she is not afraid of the fire. put away all fear for this poor body. lxv i. 22. _jab main bhûlâ, re bhâî_ o brother! when i was forgetful, my true guru showed me the way. then i left off all rites and ceremonies, i bathed no more in the holy water: then i learned that it was i alone who was mad, and the whole world beside me was sane; and i had disturbed these wise people. from that time forth i knew no more how to roll in the dust in obeisance: i do not ring the temple bell: i do not set the idol on its throne: i do not worship the image with flowers. it is not the austerities that mortify the flesh which are pleasing to the lord, when you leave off your clothes and kill your senses, you do not please the lord: the man who is kind and who practises righteousness, who remains passive amidst the affairs of the world, who considers all creatures on earth as his own self, he attains the immortal being, the true god is ever with him. kabîr says: "he attains the true name whose words are pure, and who is free from pride and conceit." lxvi i. 20. _man na rangâye_ the yogi dyes his garments, instead of dyeing his mind in the colours of love: he sits within the temple of the lord, leaving brahma to worship a stone. he pierces holes in his ears, he has a great beard and matted locks, he looks like a goat: he goes forth into the wilderness, killing all his desires, and turns himself into an eunuch: he shaves his head and dyes his garments; he reads the gîtâ and becomes a mighty talker. kabîr says: "you are going to the doors of death, bound hand and foot!" lxvii i. 9. _nâ jâne sâhab kaisâ hai_ i do not know what manner of god is mine. the mullah cries aloud to him: and why? is your lord deaf? the subtle anklets that ring on the feet of an insect when it moves are heard of him. tell your beads, paint your forehead with the mark of your god, and wear matted locks long and showy: but a deadly weapon is in your heart, and how shall you have god? lxviii iii. 102. _ham se rahâ na jây_ i hear the melody of his flute, and i cannot contain myself: the flower blooms, though it is not spring; and already the bee has received its invitation. the sky roars and the lightning flashes, the waves arise in my heart, the rain falls; and my heart longs for my lord. where the rhythm of the world rises and falls, thither my heart has reached: there the hidden banners are fluttering in the air. kabîr says: "my heart is dying, though it lives." lxix iii. 2. _jo khodâ masjid vasat hai_ if god be within the mosque, then to whom does this world belong? if ram be within the image which you find upon your pilgrimage, then who is there to know what happens without? hari is in the east: allah is in the west. look within your heart, for there you will find both karim and ram; all the men and women of the world are his living forms. kabîr is the child of allah and of ram: he is my guru, he is my pir. lxx iii. 9. _s'îl santosh sadâ samadrishti_ he who is meek and contented., he who has an equal vision, whose mind is filled with the fullness of acceptance and of rest; he who has seen him and touched him, he is freed from all fear and trouble. to him the perpetual thought of god is like sandal paste smeared on the body, to him nothing else is delight: his work and his rest are filled with music: he sheds abroad the radiance of love. kabîr says: "touch his feet, who is one and indivisible, immutable and peaceful; who fills all vessels to the brim with joy, and whose form is love." lxxi iii. 13. _sâdh sangat pîtam_ go thou to the company of the good, where the beloved one has his dwelling place: take all thy thoughts and love and instruction from thence. let that assembly be burnt to ashes where his name is not spoken! tell me, how couldst thou hold a wedding-feast, if the bridegroom himself were not there? waver no more, think only of the beloved; set not thy heart on the worship of other gods, there is no worth in the worship of other masters. kabîr deliberates and says: "thus thou shalt never find the beloved!" lxxii iii. 26. _tor hîrâ hirâilwâ kîcad men_ the jewel is lost in the mud, and all are seeking for it; some look for it in the east, and some in the west; some in the water and some amongst stones. but the servant kabîr has appraised it at its true value, and has wrapped it with care in the end of the mantle of his heart. lxxiii iii. 26. _âyau din gaune kâ ho_ the palanquin came to take me away to my husband's home, and it sent through my heart a thrill of joy; but the bearers have brought me into the lonely forest, where i have no one of my own. o bearers, i entreat you by your feet, wait but a moment longer: let me go back to my kinsmen and friends, and take my leave of them. the servant kabîr sings: "o sadhu! finish your buying and selling, have done with your good and your bad: for there are no markets and no shops in the land to which you go." lxxiv iii. 30. _are dil, prem nagar kä ant na pâyâ_ o my heart! you have not known all the secrets of this city of love: in ignorance you came, and in ignorance you return. o my friend, what have you done with this life? you have taken on your head the burden heavy with stones, and who is to lighten it for you? your friend stands on the other shore, but you never think in your mind how you may meet with him: the boat is broken, and yet you sit ever upon the bank; and thus you are beaten to no purpose by the waves. the servant kabîr asks you to consider; who is there that shall befriend you at the last? you are alone, you have no companion: you will suffer the consequences of your own deeds. lxxv iii. 55. _ved kahe sargun ke âge_ the vedas say that the unconditioned stands beyond the world of conditions. o woman, what does it avail thee to dispute whether he is beyond all or in all? see thou everything as thine own dwelling place: the mist of pleasure and pain can never spread there. there brahma is revealed day and night: there light is his garment, light is his seat, light rests on thy head. kabîr says: "the master, who is true, he is all light." lxxvi iii. 48. _tû surat nain nihâr_ open your eyes of love, and see him who pervades this world i consider it well, and know that this is your own country. when you meet the true guru, he will awaken your heart; he will tell you the secret of love and detachment, and then you will know indeed that he transcends this universe. this world is the city of truth, its maze of paths enchants the heart: we can reach the goal without crossing the road, such is the sport unending. where the ring of manifold joys ever dances about him, there is the sport of eternal bliss. when we know this, then all our receiving and renouncing is over; thenceforth the heat of having shall never scorch us more. he is the ultimate rest unbounded: he has spread his form of love throughout all the world. from that ray which is truth, streams of new forms are perpetually springing: and he pervades those forms. all the gardens and groves and bowers are abounding with blossom; and the air breaks forth into ripples of joy. there the swan plays a wonderful game, there the unstruck music eddies around the infinite one; there in the midst the throne of the unheld is shining, whereon the great being sits- millions of suns are shamed by the radiance of a single hair of his body. on the harp of the road what true melodies are being sounded! and its notes pierce the heart: there the eternal fountain is playing its endless life-streams of birth and death. they call him emptiness who is the truth of truths, in whom all truths are stored! there within him creation goes forward, which is beyond all philosophy; for philosophy cannot attain to him: there is an endless world, o my brother! and there is the nameless being, of whom naught can be said. only he knows it who has reached that region: it is other than all that is heard and said. no form, no body, no length, no breadth is seen there: how can i tell you that which it is? he comes to the path of the infinite on whom the grace of the lord descends: he is freed from births and deaths who attains to him. kabîr says: "it cannot be told by the words of the mouth, it cannot be written on paper: it is like a dumb person who tastes a sweet thing--how shall it be explained?" lxxvii iii. 60. _cal hamsâ wâ des' jahân_ o my heart! let us go to that country where dwells the beloved, the ravisher of my heart! there love is filling her pitcher from the well, yet she has no rope wherewith to draw water; there the clouds do not cover the sky, yet the rain falls down in gentle showers: o bodiless one! do not sit on your doorstep; go forth and bathe yourself in that rain! there it is ever moonlight and never dark; and who speaks of one sun only? that land is illuminate with the rays of a million suns. lxxviii iii. 63. _kahain kabîr, s'uno ho sâdho_ kabîr says: "o sadhu! hear my deathless words. if you want your own good, examine and consider them well. you have estranged yourself from the creator, of whom you have sprung: you have lost your reason, you have bought death. all doctrines and all teachings are sprung from him, from him they grow: know this for certain, and have no fear. hear from me the tidings of this great truth! whose name do you sing, and on whom do you meditate? o, come forth from this entanglement! he dwells at the heart of all things, so why take refuge in empty desolation? if you place the guru at a distance from you, then it is but the distance that you honour: if indeed the master be far away, then who is it else that is creating this world? when you think that he is not here, then you wander further and further away, and seek him in vain with tears. where he is far off, there he is unattainable: where he is near, he is very bliss. kabîr says: "lest his servant should suffer pain he pervades him through and through." know yourself then, o kabîr; for he is in you from head to foot. sing with gladness, and keep your seat unmoved within your heart. lxxix iii. 66. _nâ main dharmî nahîn adharmî_ i am neither pious nor ungodly, i live neither by law nor by sense, i am neither a speaker nor hearer, i am neither a servant nor master, i am neither bond nor free, i am neither detached nor attached. i am far from none: i am near to none. i shall go neither to hell nor to heaven. i do all works; yet i am apart from all works. few comprehend my meaning: he who can comprehend it, he sits unmoved. kabîr seeks neither to establish nor to destroy. lxxx iii. 69. _satta nâm hai sab ten nyârâ_ the true name is like none other name! the distinction of the conditioned from the unconditioned is but a word: the unconditioned is the seed, the conditioned is the flower and the fruit. knowledge is the branch, and the name is the root. look, and see where the root is: happiness shall be yours when you come to the root. the root will lead you to the branch, the leaf, the flower, and the fruit: it is the encounter with the lord, it is the attainment of bliss, it is the reconciliation of the conditioned and the unconditioned. lxxxi iii. 74. _pratham ek jo âpai âp_ in the beginning was he alone, sufficient unto himself: the formless, colourless, and unconditioned being. then was there neither beginning, middle, nor end; then were no eyes, no darkness, no light; then were no ground, air, nor sky; no fire, water, nor earth; no rivers like the ganges and the jumna, no seas, oceans, and waves. then was neither vice nor virtue; scriptures there were not, as the vedas and puranas, nor as the koran. kabîr ponders in his mind and says, "then was there no activity: the supreme being remained merged in the unknown depths of his own self." the guru neither eats nor drinks, neither lives nor dies: neither has he form, line, colour, nor vesture. he who has neither caste nor clan nor anything else--how may i describe his glory? he has neither form nor formlessness, he has no name, he has neither colour nor colourlessness, he has no dwelling-place. lxxxii iii. 76. _kahain kabîr vicâr ke_ kabîr ponders and says: "he who has neither caste nor country, who is formless and without quality, fills all space." the creator brought into being the game of joy: and from the word om the creation sprang. the earth is his joy; his joy is the sky; his joy is the flashing of the sun and the moon; his joy is the beginning, the middle, and the end; his joy is eyes, darkness, and light. oceans and waves are his joy: his joy the sarasvati, the jumna, and the ganges. the guru is one: and life and death., union and separation, are all his plays of joy! his play the land and water, the whole universe! his play the earth and the sky! in play is the creation spread out, in play it is established. the whole world, says kabîr, rests in his play, yet still the player remains unknown. lxxxiii iii. 84. _jhî jhî jantar bâjai_ the harp gives forth murmurous music; and the dance goes on without hands and feet. it is played without fingers, it is heard without ears: for he is the ear, and he is the listener. the gate is locked, but within there is fragrance: and there the meeting is seen of none. the wise shall understand it. lxxxiv iii. 89. _mor phakîrwâ mângi jây_ the beggar goes a-begging, but i could not even catch sight of him: and what shall i beg of the beggar he gives without my asking. kabîr says: "i am his own: now let that befall which may befall!" lxxxv iii. 90. _naihar se jiyarâ phât re_ my heart cries aloud for the house of my lover; the open road and the shelter of a roof are all one to her who has lost the city of her husband. my heart finds no joy in anything: my mind and my body are distraught. his palace has a million gates, but there is a vast ocean between it and me: how shall i cross it, o friend? for endless is the outstretching of the path. how wondrously this lyre is wrought! when its strings are rightly strung, it maddens the heart: but when the keys are broken and the strings are loosened, none regard it more. i tell my parents with laughter that i must go to my lord in the morning; they are angry, for they do not want me to go, and they say: "she thinks she has gained such dominion over her husband that she can have whatsoever she wishes; and therefore she is impatient to go to him." dear friend, lift my veil lightly now; for this is the night of love. kabîr says: "listen to me! my heart is eager to meet my lover: i lie sleepless upon my bed. remember me early in the morning!" lxxxvi iii. 96. _jîv mahal men s'iv pahunwâ_ serve your god, who has come into this temple of life! do not act the part of a madman, for the night is thickening fast. he has awaited me for countless ages, for love of me he has lost his heart: yet i did not know the bliss that was so near to me, for my love was not yet awake. but now, my lover has made known to me the meaning of the note that struck my ear: now, my good fortune is come. kabîr says: "behold! how great is my good fortune! i have received the unending caress of my beloved!" lxxxvii i. 71. _gagan ghatâ ghaharânî, sâdho_ clouds thicken in the sky! o, listen to the deep voice of their roaring; the rain comes from the east with its monotonous murmur. take care of the fences and boundaries of your fields, lest the rains overflow them; prepare the soil of deliverance, and let the creepers of love and renunciation be soaked in this shower. it is the prudent farmer who will bring his harvest home; he shall fill both his vessels, and feed both the wise men and the saints. lxxxviii iii. 118. _âj din ke main jaun balihârî_ this day is dear to me above all other days, for to-day the beloved lord is a guest in my house; my chamber and my courtyard are beautiful with his presence. my longings sing his name, and they are become lost in his great beauty: i wash his feet, and i look upon his face; and i lay before him as an offering my body, my mind, and all that i have. what a day of gladness is that day in which my beloved, who is my treasure, comes to my house! all evils fly from my heart when i see my lord. "my love has touched him; my heart is longing for the name which is truth." thus sings kabîr, the servant of all servants. lxxxix i. 100. _kôi s'untâ hai jñânî râg gagan men_ is there any wise man who will listen to that solemn music which arises in the sky? for he, the source of all music, makes all vessels full fraught, and rests in fullness himself. he who is in the body is ever athirst, for he pursues that which is in part: but ever there wells forth deeper and deeper the sound "he is this--this is he"; fusing love and renunciation into one. kabîr says: "o brother! that is the primal word." xc i. 108. _main kâ se bûjhaun_ to whom shall i go to learn about my beloved? kabîr says: "as you never may find the forest if you ignore the tree, so he may never be found in abstractions." xci iii. 12. _samskirit bhâshâ padhi lînhâ_ i have learned the sanskrit language, so let all men call me wise: but where is the use of this, when i am floating adrift, and parched with thirst, and burning with the heat of desire? to no purpose do you bear on your head this load of pride and vanity. kabîr says: "lay it down in the dust, and go forth to meet the beloved. address him as your lord." xcii iii. 110. _carkhâ calai surat virahin kâ_ the woman who is parted from her lover spins at the spinning wheel. the city of the body arises in its beauty; and within it the palace of the mind has been built. the wheel of love revolves in the sky, and the seat is made of the jewels of knowledge: what subtle threads the woman weaves, and makes them fine with love and reverence! kabîr says: "i am weaving the garland of day and night. when my lover comes and touches me with his feet, i shall offer him my tears." xciii iii. 111. _kotîn bhânu candra târâgan_ beneath the great umbrella of my king millions of suns and moons and stars are shining! he is the mind within my mind: he is the eye within mine eye. ah, could my mind and eyes be one! could my love but reach to my lover! could but the fiery heat of my heart be cooled! kabîr says: "when you unite love with the lover, then you have love's perfection." xciv i. 92. _avadhû begam des' hamârâ_ o sadhu! my land is a sorrowless land. i cry aloud to all, to the king and the beggar, the emperor and the fakir- whosoever seeks for shelter in the highest, let all come and settle in my land! let the weary come and lay his burdens here! so live here, my brother, that you may cross with ease to that other shore. it is a land without earth or sky, without moon or stars; for only the radiance of truth shines in my lord's durbar. kabîr says: "o beloved brother! naught is essential save truth." xcv i. 109. _sâîn ke sangat sâsur âî_ came with my lord to my lord's home: but i lived not with him and i tasted him not, and my youth passed away like a dream. on my wedding night my women-friends sang in chorus, and i was anointed with the unguents of pleasure and pain: but when the ceremony was over, i left my lord and came away, and my kinsman tried to console me upon the road. kabîr says, "i shall go to my lord's house with my love at my side; then shall i sound the trumpet of triumph!" xcvi i. 75. _samajh dekh man mît piyarwâ_ o friend, dear heart of mine, think well! if you love indeed, then why do you sleep? if you have found him, then give yourself utterly, and take him to you. why do you loose him again and again? if the deep sleep of rest has come to your eyes, why waste your time making the bed and arranging the pillows? kabîr says: "i tell you the ways of love! even though the head itself must be given, why should you weep over it?" xcvii ii. 90. _sâhab ham men, sâhab tum men_ the lord is in me, the lord is in you, as life is in every seed. o servant! put false pride away, and seek for him within you. a million suns are ablaze with light, the sea of blue spreads in the sky, the fever of life is stilled, and all stains are washed away; when i sit in the midst of that world. hark to the unstruck bells and drums! take your delight in love! rains pour down without water, and the rivers are streams of light. one love it is that pervades the whole world, few there are who know it fully: they are blind who hope to see it by the light of reason, that reason which is the cause of separation- the house of reason is very far away! how blessed is kabîr, that amidst this great joy he sings within his own vessel. it is the music of the meeting of soul with soul; it is the music of the forgetting of sorrows; it is the music that transcends all coming in and all going forth. xcviii ii. 98. _ritu phâgun niyarânî_ the month of march draws near: ah, who will unite me to my lover? how shall i find words for the beauty of my beloved? for he is merged in all beauty. his colour is in all the pictures of the world, and it bewitches the body and the mind. those who know this, know what is this unutterable play of the spring. kabîr says: "listen to me, brother' there are not many who have found this out." xcix ii. 111. _nârad, pyâr so antar nâhî_ oh narad! i know that my lover cannot be far: when my lover wakes, i wake; when he sleeps, i sleep. he is destroyed at the root who gives pain to my beloved. where they sing his praise, there i live; when he moves, i walk before him: my heart yearns for my beloved. the infinite pilgrimage lies at his feet, a million devotees are seated there. kabîr says: "the lover himself reveals the glory of true love." c ii. 122. _kôî prem kî peng jhulâo re_ hang up the swing of love to-day! hang the body and the mind between the arms of the beloved, in the ecstasy of love's joy: bring the tearful streams of the rainy clouds to your eyes, and cover your heart with the shadow of darkness: bring your face nearer to his ear, and speak of the deepest longings of your heart. kabîr says: "listen to me, brother! bring the vision of the beloved in your heart." the fugitive by rabindranath tagore to w.w. pearson contents the fugitive--i. kacha and devayani translations the fugitive--ii. ama and vinayaka the mother's prayer translations the fugitive--iii. somaka and ritvik karna and kunti translations 1 darkly you sweep on, eternal fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnant space frets into eddying bubbles of light. is your heart lost to the lover calling you across his immeasurable loneliness? is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangled tresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path as from a broken necklace? your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweeping aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes the sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth. should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an unbearable pressure. my thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the anklets of light are shaken. they echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm of the ancient sea. i hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings and songs. the tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire, my heart! leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towards limitless light. 2 we came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads i stop to bid you farewell. your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by ways from the unknown. i shall follow wind and cloud; i shall follow the stars to where day breaks behind the hills; i shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days into a wreath on a single thread of song, "i love." 3 it was growing dark when i asked her, "what strange land have i come to?" she only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar, as she walked away. the trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it already belonged to the past. the water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the lane. row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,--for i love the look of this land. the evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark water. belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. still that wristlet tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the lane littered with leaves. the night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums wearily. row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree. let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a water-jar. 4 o that i were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds--a secret, folded up in silence, that i could wander away with. o that i had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that doze in the sun. the hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the cause of my tears. i cannot give a reason why i weep, for that is a secret still withheld from me. 5 for once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way; wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in mist. do not shun the garden of lost hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road, where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water heaves in the troubled sea. long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. let it be stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all. 6 two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that metaphor, "flowers are the footprints of summer." they lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be erased by a passing breeze. come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path. 7 i am like the night to you, little flower. i can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark. when in the morning you open your eyes, i shall leave you to a world a-hum with bees, and songful with birds. my last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the pitiless mirth of day. 8 do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret. it is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red by passion. what gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust? i fear, if i accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by the loss of all i have. do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame my destitute life. 9 if i were living in the royal town of ujjain, when kalidas was the king's poet, i should know some malwa girl and fill my thoughts with the music of her name. she would glance at me through the slanting shadow of her eyelids, and allow her veil to catch in the jasmine as an excuse for lingering near me. this very thing happened in some past whose track is lost under time's dead leaves. the scholars fight to-day about dates that play hide-and-seek. i do not break my heart dreaming over flown and vanished ages: but alas and alas again, that those malwa girls have followed them! to what heaven, i wonder, have they carried in their flower-baskets those days that tingled to the lyrics of the king's poet? this morning, separation from those whom i was born too late to meet weighs on and saddens my heart. yet april carries the same flowers with which they decked their hair, and the same south breeze fluttered their veils as whispers over modern roses. and, to tell the truth, joys are not lacking to this spring, though kalidas sing no more; and i know, if he can watch me from the poets' paradise, he has reasons to be envious. 10 be not concerned about her heart, my heart: leave it in the dark. what if her beauty be of the figure and her smile merely of the face? let me take without question the simple meaning of her glances and be happy. i care not if it be a web of delusion that her arms wind about me, for the web itself is rich and rare, and the deceit can be smiled at and forgotten. be not concerned about her heart, my heart: be content if the music is true, though the words are not to be believed; enjoy the grace that dances like a lily on the rippling, deceiving surface, whatever may lie beneath. 11 neither mother nor daughter are you, nor bride, urvashi.[1] woman you are, to ravish the soul of paradise. [footnote 1: the dancing girl of paradise who rose from the sea.] when weary-footed evening comes down to the folds whither the cattle have returned, you never trim the house lamps nor walk to the bridal bed with a tremulous heart and a wavering smile on your lips, glad that the dark hours are so secret. like the dawn you are without veil, urvashi, and without shame. who can imagine that aching overflow of splendour which created you! you rose from the churned ocean on the first day of the first spring, with the cup of life in your right hand and poison in your left. the monster sea, lulled like an enchanted snake, laid down its thousand hoods at your feet. your unblemished radiance rose from the foam, white and naked as a jasmine. were you ever small, timid or in bud, urvashi, o youth everlasting? did you sleep, cradled in the deep blue night where the strange light of gems plays over coral, shells and moving creatures of dreamlike form, till day revealed your awful fulness of bloom? adored are you of all men in all ages, urvashi, o endless wonder! the world throbs with youthful pain at the glance of your eyes, the ascetic lays the fruit of his austerities at your feet, the songs of poets hum and swarm round the perfume of your presence. your feet, as in careless joy they flit on, wound even the heart of the hollow wind with the tinkle of golden bells. when you dance before the gods, flinging orbits of novel rhythm into space, urvashi, the earth shivers, leaf and grass, and autumn fields heave and sway; the sea surges into a frenzy of rhyming waves; the stars drop into the sky--beads from the chain that leaps till it breaks on your breast; and the blood dances in men's hearts with sudden turmoil. you are the first break on the crest of heaven's slumber, urvashi, you thrill the air with unrest. the world bathes your limbs in her tears; with colour of her heart's blood are your feet red; lightly you poise on the wave-tossed lotus of desire, urvashi; you play forever in that limitless mind wherein labours god's tumultuous dream. 12 you, like a rivulet swift and sinuous, laugh and dance, and your steps sing as you trip along. i, like a bank rugged and steep, stand speechless and stock-still and darkly gaze at you. i, like a big, foolish storm, of a sudden come rushing on and try to rend my being and scatter it parcelled in a whirl of passion. you, like the lightning's flash slender and keen, pierce the heart of the turbulent darkness, to disappear in a vivid streak of laughter. 13 you desired my love and yet you did not love me. therefore my life clings to you like a chain of which clank and grip grow harsher the more you struggle to be free. my despair has become your deadly companion, clutching at the faintest of your favours, trying to drag you away into the cavern of tears. you have shattered my freedom, and with its wreck built your own prison. 14 i am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look. it is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. but day will dawn, my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping. who says it is hard to forget? the mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own foolish persistence. the stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire falls to sleep on its bed of ashes. you and i shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass and flowers that laugh in the sun. 15 of all days you have chosen this one to visit my garden. but the storm passed over my roses last night and the grass is strewn with torn leaves. i do not know what has brought you, now that the hedges are laid low and rills run in the walks; the prodigal wealth of spring is scattered and the scent and song of yesterday are wrecked. yet stay a while; let me find some remnant flowers, though i doubt if your skirt can be filled. the time will be short, for the clouds thicken and here comes the rain again! 16 i forgot myself for a moment, and i came. but raise your eyes, and let me know if there still linger some shadow of other days, like a pale cloud on the horizon that has been robbed of its rain. for a moment bear with me if i forget myself. the roses are still in bud; they do not yet know how we neglect to gather flowers this summer. the morning star has the same palpitating hush; the early light is enmeshed in the branches that overbrow your window, as in those other days. that times are changed i forget for a little, and have come. i forget if you ever shamed me by looking away when i bared my heart. i only remember the words that stranded on the tremor of your lips; i remember in your dark eyes sweeping shadows of passion, like the wings of a home-seeking bird in the dusk. i forget that you do not remember, and i come. 17 the rain fell fast. the river rushed and hissed. it licked up and swallowed the island, while i waited alone on the lessening bank with my sheaves of corn in a heap. from the shadows of the opposite shore the boat crosses with a woman at the helm. i cry to her, "come to my island coiled round with hungry water, and take away my year's harvest." she comes, and takes all that i have to the last grain; i ask her to take me. but she says, "no"--the boat is laden with my gift and no room is left for me. 18 the evening beckons, and i would fain follow the travellers who sailed in the last ferry of the ebb-tide to cross the dark. some were for home, some for the farther shore, yet all have ventured to sail. but i sit alone at the landing, having left my home and missed the boat: summer is gone and my winter harvest is lost. i wait for that love which gathers failures to sow them in tears on the dark, that they may bear fruit when day rises anew. 19 on this side of the water there is no landing; the girls do not come here to fetch water; the land along its edge is shaggy with stunted shrubs; a noisy flock of _saliks_ dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown the fisher-boats find no shelter. you sit there on the unfrequented grass, and the morning wears on. tell me what you do on this bank so dry that it is agape with cracks? she looks in my face and says, "nothing, nothing whatsoever." on this side of the river the bank is deserted, and no cattle come to water. only some stray goats from the village browse the scanty grass all day, and the solitary water-hawk watches from an uprooted _peepal_ aslant over the mud. you sit there alone in the miserly shade of a _shimool,_ and the morning wears on. tell me, for whom do you wait? she looks in my face and says, "no one, no one at all!" 20 kacha and devayani kacha and devayani _young kacha came from paradise to learn the secret of immortality from a sage who taught the titans, and whose daughter devayani fell in love with him._ kacha the time has come for me to take leave, devayani; i have long sat at your father's feet, but to-day he completed his teaching. graciously allow me to go back to the land of the gods whence i came. devayani you have, as you desired, won that rare knowledge coveted by the gods;--but think, do you aspire after nothing further? kacha nothing. devayani nothing at all! dive into the bottom of your heart; does no timid wish lurk there, fearful lest it be blighted? kacha for me the sun of fulfilment has risen, and the stars have faded in its light. i have mastered the knowledge which gives life. devayani then you must be the one happy being in creation. alas! now for the first time i feel what torture these days spent in an alien land have been to you, though we offered you our best. kacha not so much bitterness! smile, and give me leave to go. devayani smile! but, my friend, this is not your native paradise. smiles are not so cheap in this world, where thirst, like a worm in the flower, gnaws at the heart's core; where baffled desire hovers round the desired, and memory never ceases to sigh foolishly after vanished joy. kacha devayani, tell me how i have offended? devayani is it so easy for you to leave this forest, which through long years has lavished on you shade and song? do you not feel how the wind wails through these glimmering shadows, and dry leaves whirl in the air, like ghosts of lost hope;--while you alone, who part from us, have a smile on your lips? kacha this forest has been a second mother to me, for here i have been born again. my love for it shall never dwindle. devayani when you had driven the cattle to graze on the lawn, yonder banyan tree spread a hospitable shade for your tired limbs against the mid-day heat. kacha i bow to thee, lord of the forest! remember me, when under thy shade other students chant their lessons to an accompaniment of bees humming and leaves rustling. devayani and do not forget our venumati, whose swift water is one stream of singing love. kacha i shall ever remember her, the dear companion of my exile, who, like a busy village girl, smiles on her errand of ceaseless service and croons a simple song. devayani but, friend, let me also remind you that you had another companion whose thoughts were vainly busy to make you forget an exile's cares. kacha the memory of her has become a part of my life. devayani i recall the day when, little more than a boy, you first arrived. you stood there, near the hedge of the garden, a smile in your eyes. kacha and i saw you gathering flowers--clad in white, like the dawn bathed in radiance. and i said, "make me proud by allowing me to help you!" devayani i asked in surprise who you were, and you meekly answered that you were the son of vrihaspati, a divine sage at the court of the god indra, and desired to learn from my father that secret spell which can revive the dead. kacha i feared lest the master, the teacher of the titans, those rivals of the gods, should refuse to accept me for a disciple. devayani but he could not refuse me when i pleaded your cause, so greatly he loves his daughter. kacha thrice had the jealous titans slain me, and thrice you prevailed on your father to bring me back to life; therefore my gratitude can never die. devayani gratitude! forget all--i shall not grieve. do you only remember benefits? let them perish! if after the day's lessons, in the evening solitude, some strange tremor of joy shook your heart, remember that--but not gratitude. if, as some one passed, a snatch of song got tangled among your texts or the swing of a robe fluttered your studies with delight, remember that when at leisure in your paradise. what, benefits only!--and neither beauty nor love nor...? kacha some things are beyond the power of words. devayani yes, yes, i know. my love has sounded your heart's deepest, and makes me bold to speak in defiance of your reserve. never leave me! remain here! fame gives no happiness. friend, you cannot now escape, for your secret is mine! kacha no, no, devayani. devayani how "no"? do not lie to me! love's insight is divine. day after day, in raising your head, in a glance, in the motion of your hands, your love spoke as the sea speaks through its waves. on a sudden my voice would send your heart quivering through your limbs--have i never witnessed it? i know you, and therefore you are my captive for ever. the very king of your gods shall not sever this bond. kacha was it for this, devayani, that i toiled, away from home and kindred, all these years? devayani why not? is only knowledge precious? is love cheap? lay hold on this moment. have the courage to own that a woman's heart is worth all as much penance as men undergo for the sake of power, knowledge, or reputation. kacha i gave my solemn promise to the gods that i would bring them this lore of deathless life. devayani but is it true you had eyes for nothing save your books? that you never broke off your studies to pay me homage with flowers, never lay in wait for a chance, of an evening, to help me water my flower-beds? what made you sit by me on the grass and sing songs you brought hither from the assembly of the stars, while darkness stooped over the river bank as love droops over its own sad silence? were these parts of a cruel conspiracy plotted in your paradise? was all for the sake of access to my father's heart?--and after success, were you, departing, to throw some cheap gratitude, like small coins, to the deluded door-keeper? kacha what profit were there, proud woman, in knowing the truth? if i did wrong to serve you with a passionate devotion cherished in secret, i have had ample punishment. this is no time to question whether my love be true or not; my life's work awaits me. though my heart must henceforth enclose a red flame vainly striving to devour emptiness, still i must go back to that paradise which will nevermore be paradise to me. i owe the gods a new divinity, hard won by my studies, before i may think of happiness. forgive me, devayani, and know that my suffering is doubled by the pain i unwillingly inflict on you. devayani forgiveness! you have angered my heart till it is hard and burning like a thunderbolt! you can go back to your work and your glory, but what is left for me? memory is a bed of thorns, and secret shame will gnaw at the roots of my life. you came like a wayfarer, sat through the sunny hours in the shade of my garden, and to while time away you plucked all its flowers and wove them into a chain. and now, parting, you snap the thread and let the flowers drop on the dust! accursed be that great knowledge you have earned!--a burden that, though others share equally with you, will never be lightened. for lack of love may it ever remain as foreign to your life as the cold stars are to the un-espoused darkness of virgin night! 21 i "why these preparations without end?"--i said to mind--"is some one to come?" mind replied, "i am enormously busy gathering things and building towers. i have no time to answer such questions." meekly i went back to my work. when things were grown to a pile, when seven wings of his palace were complete, i said to mind, "is it not enough?" mind began to say, "not enough to contain--" and then stopped. "contain what?" i asked. mind affected not to hear. i suspected that mind did not know, and with ceaseless work smothered the question. his one refrain was, "i must have more." "why must you?" "because it is great." "what is great?" mind remained silent. i pressed for an answer. in contempt and anger, mind said, "why ask about things that are not? take notice of those that are hugely before you,--the struggle and the fight, the army and armaments, the bricks and mortar, and labourers without number." i thought "possibly mind is wise." ii days passed. more wings were added to his palace--more lands to his domain. the season of rains came to an end. the dark clouds became white and thin, and in the rain-washed sky the sunny hours hovered like butterflies over an unseen flower. i was bewildered and asked everybody i met, "what is that music in the breeze?" a tramp walked the road whose dress was wild as his manner; he said, "hark to the music of the coming!" i cannot tell why i was convinced, but the words broke from me, "we have not much longer to wait." "it is close at hand," said the mad man. i went to the office and boldly said to mind, "stop all work!" mind asked, "have you any news?" "yes," i answered, "news of the coming." but i could not explain. mind shook his head and said, "there are neither banners nor pageantry!" iii the night waned, the stars paled in the sky. suddenly the touchstone of the morning light tinged everything with gold. a cry spread from mouth to mouth-"here is the herald!" i bowed my head and asked, "is he coming?" the answer seemed to burst from all sides, "yes." mind grew troubled and said, "the dome of my building is not yet finished, nothing is in order." a voice came from the sky, "pull down your building!" "but why?" asked mind. "because to-day is the day of the coming, and your building is in the way." iv the lofty building lies in the dust and all is scattered and broken. mind looked about. but what was there to see? only the morning star and the lily washed in dew. and what else? a child running laughing from its mother's arms into the open light. "was it only for this that they said it was the day of the coming?" "yes, this was why they said there was music in the air and light in the sky." "and did they claim all the earth only for this?" "yes," came the answer. "mind, you build walls to imprison yourself. your servants toil to enslave themselves; but the whole earth and infinite space are for the child, for the new life." "what does that child bring you?" "hope for all the world and its joy." mind asked me, "poet, do you understand?" "i lay my work aside," i said, "for i must have time to understand." 22 translations vaishnava songs 1 oh sakhi,[1] my sorrow knows no bounds. [footnote 1: the woman friend of a woman.] august comes laden with rain clouds and my house is desolate. the stormy sky growls, the earth is flooded with rain, my love is far away, and my heart is torn with anguish. the peacocks dance, for the clouds rumble and frogs croak. the night brims with darkness flicked with lightning. vidyapati[2] asks, "maiden, how are you to spend your days and nights without your lord?" [footnote 2: the name of the poet.] 2 lucky was my awakening this morning, for i saw my beloved. the sky was one piece of joy, and my life and youth were fulfilled. to-day my house becomes my house in truth, and my body my body. fortune has proved a friend, and my doubts are dispelled. birds, sing your best; moon, shed your fairest light! let fly your darts, love-god, in millions! i wait for the moment when my body will grow golden at his touch. vidyapati says, "immense is your good fortune, and blessed is your love." 3 i feel my body vanishing into the dust whereon my beloved walks. i feel one with the water of the lake where he bathes. oh sakhi, my love crosses death's boundary when i meet him. my heart melts in the light and merges in the mirror whereby he views his face. i move with the air to kiss him when he waves his fan, and wherever he wanders i enclose him like the sky. govindadas says, "you are the gold-setting, fair maiden, he is the emerald." 4 my love, i will keep you hidden in my eyes; i will thread your image like a gem on my joy and hang it on my bosom. you have been in my heart ever since i was a child, throughout my youth, throughout my life, even through all my dreams. you dwell in my being when i sleep and when i wake. know that i am a woman, and bear with me when you find me wanting. for i have thought and thought and know for certain that all that is left for me in this world is your love, and if i lose you for a moment i die. chandidas says, "be tender to her who is yours in life and death." 5 "fruit to sell, fruit to sell," cried the woman at the door. the child came out of the house. "give me some fruit," said he, putting a handful of rice in her basket. the fruit-seller gazed at his face and her eyes swam with tears. "who is the fortunate mother," she cried, "that has clasped you in her arms and fed you at her breast, and whom your dear voice called 'mother'?" "offer your fruit to him," says the poet, "and with it your life." ii 1 endlessly varied art thou in the exuberant world, lady of manifold magnificence. thy path is strewn with lights, thy touch thrills into flowers; that trailing skirt of thine sweeps the whirl of a dance among the stars, and thy many-toned music is echoed from innumerable worlds through signs and colours. single and alone in the unfathomed stillness of the soul, art thou, lady of silence and solitude, a vision thrilled with light, a lonely lotus blossoming on the stem of love. 2 behind the rusty iron gratings of the opposite window sits a girl, dark and plain of face, like a boat stranded on a sand-bank when the river is shallow in the summer. i come back to my room after my day's work, and my tired eyes are lured to her. she seems to me like a lake with its dark lonely waters edged by moonlight. she has only her window for freedom: there the morning light meets her musings, and through it her dark eyes like lost stars travel back to their sky. 3 i remember the day. the heavy shower of rain is slackening into fitful pauses, renewed gusts of wind startle it from a first lull. i take up my instrument. idly i touch the strings, till, without my knowing, the music borrows the mad cadence of that storm. i see her figure as she steals from her work, stops at my door, and retreats with hesitating steps. she comes again, stands outside leaning against the wall, then slowly enters the room and sits down. with head bent, she plies her needle in silence; but soon stops her work, and looks out of the window through the rain at the blurred line of trees. only this--one hour of a rainy noon filled with shadows and song and silence. 4 while stepping into the carriage she turned her head and threw me a swift glance of farewell. this was her last gift to me. but where can i keep it safe from the trampling hours? must evening sweep this gleam of anguish away, as it will the last flicker of fire from the sunset? ought it to be washed off by the rain, as treasured pollens are from heart-broken flowers? leave kingly glory and the wealth of the rich to death. but may not tears keep ever fresh the memory of a glance flung through a passionate moment? "give it to me to keep," said my song; "i never touch kings' glory or the wealth of the rich, but these small things are mine for ever." 5 you give yourself to me, like a flower that blossoms at night, whose presence is known by the dew that drips from it, by the odour shed through the darkness, as the first steps of spring are by the buds that thicken the twigs. you break upon my thought like waves at the high tide, and my heart is drowned under surging songs. my heart knew of your coming, as the night feels the approach of dawn. the clouds are aflame and my sky fills with a great revealing flood. 6 i was to go away; still she did not speak. but i felt, from a slight quiver, her yearning arms would say: "ah no, not yet." i have often heard her pleading hands vocal in a touch, though they knew not what they said. i have known those arms to stammer when, had they not, they would have become youth's garland round my neck. their little gestures return to remembrance in the covert of still hours, like truants they playfully reveal things she had kept secret from me. 7 my songs are like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant trace--some memory--of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its hidden store. when the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home, their languid wings dusted with gold. 8 i believe you had visited me in a vision before we ever met, like some foretaste of april before the spring broke into flower. that vision must have come when all was bathed in the odour of _sal_ blossom; when the twilight twinkle of the river fringed its yellow sands, and the vague sounds of a summer afternoon were blended; yes, and had it not laughed and evaded me in many a nameless gleam at other moments? 9 i think i shall stop startled if ever we meet after our next birth, walking in the light of a far-away world. i shall know those dark eyes then as morning stars, and yet feel that they have belonged to some unremembered evening sky of a former life. i shall know that the magic of your face is not all its own, but has stolen the passionate light that was in my eyes at some immemorial meeting, and then gathered from my love a mystery that has now forgotten its origin. 10 lay down your lute, my love, leave your arms free to embrace me. let your touch bring my overflowing heart to my body's utmost brink. do not bend your neck and turn away your face, but offer up a kiss to me, which has been like some perfume long closed in a bud. do not smother this moment under vain words, but let our hearts quake in a rush of silence sweeping all thoughts to the shoreless delight. 11 you have made me great with your love, though i am but one among the many, drifting in the common tide, rocking in the fluctuant favour of the world. you have given me a seat where poets of all time bring their tribute, and lovers with deathless names greet one another across the ages. men hastily pass me in the market,--never noting how my body has grown precious with your caress, how i carry your kiss within, as the sun carries in its orb the fire of the divine touch and shines for ever. 12 like a child that frets and pushes away its toys, my heart to-day shakes its head at every phrase i suggest, and says, "no, not this." yet words, in the agony of their vagueness, haunt my mind, like vagrant clouds hovering over hills, waiting for some chance wind to relieve them of their rain. but leave these vain efforts, my soul, for the stillness will ripen its own music in the dark. my life to-day is like a cloister during some penance, where the spring is afraid to stir or to whisper. this is not the time, my love, for you to pass the gate; at the mere thought of your anklet bells tinkling down the path, the garden echoes are ashamed. know that to-morrow's songs are in bud to-day, and should they see you walk by they would strain to breaking their immature hearts. 13 whence do you bring this disquiet, my love? let my heart touch yours and kiss the pain out of your silence. the night has thrown up from its depth this little hour, that love may build a new world within these shut doors, to be lighted by this solitary lamp. we have for music but a single reed which our two pairs of lips must play on by turns--for crown, only one garland to bind my hair after i have put it on your forehead. tearing the veil from my breast i shall make our bed on the floor; and one kiss and one sleep of delight shall fill our small boundless world. 14 all that i had i gave to you, keeping but the barest veil of reserve. it is so thin that you secretly smile at it and i feel ashamed. the gust of the spring breeze sweeps it away unawares, and the flutter of my own heart moves it as the waves move their foam. my love, do not grieve if i keep this flimsy mist of distance round me. this frail reserve of mine is no mere woman's coyness, but a slender stem on which the flower of my self-surrender bends towards you with reticent grace. 15 i have donned this new robe to-day because my body feels like singing. it is not enough that i am given to my love once and for ever, but out of that i must fashion new gifts every day; and shall i not seem a fresh offering, dressed in a new robe? my heart, like the evening sky, has its endless passion for colour, and therefore i change my veils, which have now the green of the cool young grass and now that of the winter rice. to-day my robe is tinted with the rain-rimmed blue of the sky. it brings to my limbs the colour of the boundless, the colour of the oversea hills; and it carries in its folds the delight of summer clouds flying in the wind. 16 i thought i would write love's words in their own colour; but that lies deep in the heart, and tears are pale. would you know them, friend, if the words were colourless? i thought i would sing love's words to their own tune, but that sounds only in my heart, and my eyes are silent. would you know them, friend, if there were no tune? 17 in the night the song came to me; but you were not there. it found the words for which i had been seeking all day. yes, in the stillness a moment after dark they throbbed into music, even as the stars then began to pulse with light; but you were not there. my hope was to sing it to you in the morning; but, try as i might, though the music came, the words hung back, when you were beside me. 18 the night deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp. i forgot to notice when the evening--like a village girl who has filled her pitcher at the river a last time for that day--closed the door on her cabin. i was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my voice--tell me, had it any meaning? did it bring you any message from beyond life's borders? for now, since my voice has ceased, i feel the night throbbing with thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness. 19 when we two first met my heart rang out in music, "she who is eternally afar is beside you for ever." that music is silent, because i have grown to believe that my love is only near, and have forgotten that she is also far, far away. music fills the infinite between two souls. this has been muffled by the mist of our daily habits. on shy summer nights, when the breeze brings a vast murmur out of the silence, i sit up in my bed and mourn the great loss of her who is beside me. i ask myself, "when shall i have another chance to whisper to her words with the rhythm of eternity in them?" wake up, my song, from thy languor, rend this screen of the familiar, and fly to my beloved there, in the endless surprise of our first meeting! 20 lovers come to you, my queen, and proudly lay their riches at your feet: but my tribute is made up of unfulfilled hopes. shadows have stolen across the heart of my world and the best in me has lost light. while the fortunate laugh at my penury, i ask you to lend my failings your tears, and so make them precious. i bring you a voiceless instrument. i strained to reach a note which was too high in my heart, and the string broke. while masters laugh at the snapped cord, i ask you to take my lute in your hands and fill its hollowness with your songs. 21 the father came back from the funeral rites. his boy of seven stood at the window, with eyes wide open and a golden amulet hanging from his neck, full of thoughts too difficult for his age. his father took him in his arms and the boy asked him, "where is mother?" "in heaven," answered his father, pointing to the sky. at night the father groaned in slumber, weary with grief. a lamp dimly burned near the bedroom door, and a lizard chased moths on the wall. the boy woke up from sleep, felt with his hands the emptiness in the bed, and stole out to the open terrace. the boy raised his eyes to the sky and long gazed in silence. his bewildered mind sent abroad into the night the question, "where is heaven?" no answer came: and the stars seemed like the burning tears of that ignorant darkness. 22 she went away when the night was about to wane. my mind tried to console me by saying, "all is vanity." i felt angry and said, "that unopened letter with her name on it, and this palm-leaf fan bordered with red silk by her own hands, are they not real?" the day passed, and my friend came and said to me, "whatever is good is true, and can never perish." "how do you know?" i asked impatiently; "was not this body good which is now lost to the world?" as a fretful child hurting its own mother, i tried to wreck all the shelters that ever i had, in and about me, and cried, "this world is treacherous." suddenly i felt a voice saying--"ungrateful!" i looked out of the window, and a reproach seemed to come from the star-sprinkled night,--"you pour out into the void of my absence your faith in the truth that i came!" 23 the river is grey and the air dazed with blown sand. on a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests shake in the gust, i sit alone and ask myself, "where is she?" the days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings. i made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk. to-day i wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming storm, to sit in the soul's solitude. 24 the name she called me by, like a flourishing jasmine, covered the whole seventeen years of our love. with its sound mingled the quiver of the light through the leaves, the scent of the grass in the rainy night, and the sad silence of the last hour of many an idle day. not the work of god alone was he who answered to that name; she created him again for herself during those seventeen swift years. other years were to follow, but their vagrant days, no longer gathered within the fold of that name uttered in her voice, stray and are scattered. they ask me, "who should fold us?" i find no answer and sit silent, and they cry to me while dispersing, "we seek a shepherdess!" whom should they seek? that they do not know. and like derelict evening clouds they drift in the trackless dark, and are lost and forgotten. 25 i feel that your brief days of love have not been left behind in those scanty years of your life. i seek to know in what place, away from the slow-thieving dust, you keep them now. i find in my solitude some song of your evening that died, yet left a deathless echo; and the sighs of your unsatisfied hours i find nestled in the warm quiet of the autumn noon. your desires come from the hive of the past to haunt my heart, and i sit still to listen to their wings. 26 you have taken a bath in the dark sea. you are once again veiled in a bride's robe, and through death's arch you come back to repeat our wedding in the soul. neither lute nor drum is struck, no crowd has gathered, not a wreath is hung on the gate. your unuttered words meet mine in a ritual unillumined by lamps. 27 i was walking along a path overgrown with grass, when suddenly i heard from some one behind, "see if you know me?" i turned round and looked at her and said, "i cannot remember your name." she said, "i am that first great sorrow whom you met when you were young." her eyes looked like a morning whose dew is still in the air. i stood silent for some time till i said, "have you lost all the great burden of your tears?" she smiled and said nothing. i felt that her tears had had time to learn the language of smiles. "once you said," she whispered, "that you would cherish your grief for ever." i blushed and said, "yes, but years have passed and i forget." then i took her hand in mine and said, "but you have changed." "what was sorrow once has now become peace," she said. 28 our life sails on the uncrossed sea whose waves chase each other in an eternal hide-and-seek. it is the restless sea of change, feeding its foaming flocks to lose them over and over again, beating its hands against the calm of the sky. love, in the centre of this circling war-dance of light and dark, yours is that green island, where the sun kisses the shy forest shade and silence is wooed by birds' singing. 29 ama and vinayaka ama and vinayaka _night on the battlefield:_ ama _meets her father_ vinayaka. ama father! vinayaka shameless wanton, you call me "father"! you who did not shrink from a mussulman husband! ama though you have treacherously killed my husband, yet you are my father; and i hold back a widow's tears, lest they bring god's curse on you. since we have met on this battlefield after years of separation, let me bow to your feet and take my last leave! vinayaka where will you go, ama? the tree on which you built your impious nest is hewn down. where will _you_ take shelter? ama i have my son. vinayaka leave him! cast never a fond look back on the result of a sin expiated with blood! think where to go. ama death's open gates are wider than a father's love! vinayaka death indeed swallows sins as the sea swallows the mud of rivers. but you are to die neither to-night nor here. seek some solitary shrine of holy shiva far from shamed kindred and all neighbours; bathe three times a day in sacred ganges, and, while reciting god's name, listen to the last bell of evening worship, that death may look tenderly upon you, as a father on his sleeping child whose eyes are still wet with tears. let him gently carry you into his own great silence, as the ganges carries a fallen flower on its stream, washing every stain away to render it, a fit offering, to the sea. ama but my son---vinayaka again i bid you not to speak of him. lay yourself once more in a father's arms, my child, like a babe fresh from the womb of oblivion, your second mother. ama to me the world has become a shadow. your words i hear, but cannot take to heart. leave me, father, leave me alone! do not try to bind me with your love, for its bands are red with my husband's blood. vinayaka alas! no flower ever returns to the parent branch it dropped from. how can you call him _husband_ who forcibly snatched you from jivaji to whom you had been sacredly affianced? i shall never forget that night! in the wedding hall we sat anxiously expecting the bridegroom, for the auspicious hour was dwindling away. then in the distance appeared the glare of torches, and bridal strains came floating up the air. we shouted for joy: women blew their conch-shells. a procession of palanquins entered the courtyard: but while we were asking, "where is jivaji?" armed men burst out of the litters like a storm, and bore you off before we knew what had happened. shortly after, jivaji came to tell us he had been waylaid and captured by a mussulman noble of the vijapur court. that night jivaji and i touched the nuptial fire and swore bloody death to this villain. after waiting long, we have been freed from our solemn pledge to-night; and the spirit of jivaji, who lost his life in this battle, lawfully claims you for wife. ama father, it may be that i have disgraced the rites of your house, but my honour is unsullied; i loved him to whom i bore a son. i remember the night when i received two secret messages, one from you, one from my mother; yours said: "i send you the knife; kill him!" my mother's: "i send you the poison; end your life!" had unholy force dishonoured me, your double bidding had been obeyed. but my body was yielded only after love had given _me_--love all the greater, all the purer, in that it overcame the hereditary recoil of our blood from the mussulman. _enter_ rama, ama's _mother_ ama mother mine, i had not hoped to see you again. let me take dust from your feet. rama touch me not with impure hands! ama i am as pure as yourself. rama to whom have you surrendered your honour? ama to my husband. rama husband? a mussulman the husband of a brahmin woman? ama i do not merit contempt: i am proud to say i never despised my husband though a mussulman. if paradise will reward your devotion to your husband, then the same paradise waits for your daughter, who has been as true a wife. rama are you indeed a true wife? ama yes. rama do you know how to die without flinching? ama i do. rama then let the funeral fire be lighted for you! see, there lies the body of your husband. ama jivaji? rama yes, jivaji. he was your husband by plighted troth. the baffled fire of the nuptial god has raged into the hungry fire of death, and the interrupted wedding shall be completed now. vinayaka do not listen, my child. go back to your son, to your own nest darkened with sorrow. my duty has been performed to its extreme cruel end, and nothing now remains for you to do.--wife, your grief is fruitless. were the branch dead which was violently snapped from our tree, i should give it to the fire. but it has sent living roots into a new soil and is bearing flowers and fruits. allow her, without regret, to obey the laws of those among whom she has loved. come, wife, it is time we cut all worldly ties and spent our remainder lives in the seclusion of some peaceful pilgrim shrine. rama i am ready: but first must tread into dust every sprout of sin and shame that has sprung from the soil of our life. a daughter's infamy stains her mother's honour. that black shame shall feed glowing fire to-night, and raise a true wife's memorial over the ashes of my daughter. ama mother, if by force you unite me in death with one who was not my husband, then will you bring a curse upon yourself for desecrating the shrine of the eternal lord of death. rama soldiers, light the fire; surround the woman! ama father! vinayaka do not fear. alas, my child, that you should ever have to call your father to save you from your mother's hands! ama father! vinayaka come to me, my darling child! mere vanity are these man-made laws, splashing like spray against the rock of heaven's ordinance. bring your son to me, and we will live together, my daughter. a father's love, like god's rain, does not judge but is poured forth from an abounding source. rama where would you go? turn back!--soldiers, stand firm in your loyalty to your master jivaji! do your last sacred duty by him! ama father! vinayaka free her, soldiers! she is my daughter. soldiers she is the widow of our master. vinayaka her husband, though a mussulman, was staunch in his own faith. rama soldiers, keep this old man under control! ama i defy you, mother!--you, soldiers, i defy!--for through death and love i win to freedom. 30 a painter was selling pictures at the fair; followed by servants, there passed the son of a minister who in youth had cheated this painter's father so that he had died of a broken heart. the boy lingered before the pictures and chose one for himself. the painter flung a cloth over it and said he would not sell it. after this the boy pined heart-sick till his father came and offered a large price. but the painter kept the picture unsold on his shop-wall and grimly sat before it, saying to himself, "this is my revenge." the sole form this painter's worship took was to trace an image of his god every morning. and now he felt these pictures grow daily more different from those he used to paint. this troubled him, and he sought in vain for an explanation till one day he started up from work in horror, the eyes of the god he had just drawn were those of the minister, and so were the lips. he tore up the picture, crying, "my revenge has returned on my head!" 31 the general came before the silent and angry king and saluting him said: "the village is punished, the men are stricken to dust, and the women cower in their unlit homes afraid to weep aloud." the high priest stood up and blessed the king and cried: "god's mercy is ever upon you." the clown, when he heard this, burst out laughing and startled the court. the king's frown darkened. "the honour of the throne," said the minister, "is upheld by the king's prowess and the blessing of almighty god." louder laughed the clown, and the king growled,--"unseemly mirth!" "god has showered many blessings upon your head," said the clown; "the one he bestowed on me was the gift of laughter." "this gift will cost you your life," said the king, gripping his sword with his right hand. yet the clown stood up and laughed till he laughed no more. a shadow of dread fell upon the court, for they heard that laughter echoing in the depth of god's silence. 32 the mother's prayer the mother's prayer _prince duryodhana, the son of the blind kaurava king dhritarashtra, and of queen gandhari, has played with his cousins the pandava kings for their kingdom, and won it by fraud._ dhritarashtra you have compassed your end. duryodhana success is mine! dhritarashtra are you happy? duryodhana i am victorious. dhritarashtra i ask you again, what happiness have you in winning the undivided kingdom? duryodhana sire, a kshatriya thirsts not after happiness but victory, that fiery wine pressed from seething jealousy. wretchedly happy we were, like those inglorious stains that lie idly on the breast of the moon, when we lived in peace under the friendly dominance of our cousins. then these pandavas milked the world of its wealth, and allowed us a share, in brotherly tolerance. now that they own defeat and expect banishment, i am no longer happy but exultant. dhritarashtra wretch, you forget that both pandavas and kauravas have the same forefathers. duryodhana it was difficult to forget that, and therefore our inequalities rankled in my heart. at midnight the moon is never jealous of the noonday sun. but the struggle to share one horizon between both orbs cannot last forever. thank heaven, that struggle is over, and we have at last won solitude in glory. dhritarashtra the mean jealousy! duryodhana jealousy is never mean--it is in the essence of greatness. grass can grow in crowded amity, not giant trees. stars live in clusters, but the sun and moon are lonely in their splendour. the pale moon of the pandavas sets behind the forest shadows, leaving the new-risen sun of the kauravas to rejoice. dhritarashtra but right has been defeated. duryodhana right for rulers is not what is right in the eyes of the people. the people thrive by comradeship: but for a king, equals are enemies. they are obstacles ahead, they are terrors from behind. there is no place for brothers or friends in a king's polity; its one solid foundation is conquest. dhritarashtra i refuse to call a conquest what was won by fraud in gambling. duryodhana a man is not shamed by refusing to challenge a tiger on equal terms with teeth and nails. our weapons are those proper for success, not for suicide. father, i am proud of the result and disdain regret for the means. dhritarashtra but justice---duryodhana fools alone dream of justice--success is not yet theirs: but those born to rule rely on power, merciless and unhampered with scruples. dhritarashtra your success will bring down on you a loud and angry flood of detraction. duryodhana the people will take amazingly little time to learn that duryodhana is king and has power to crush calumny under foot. dhritarashtra calumny dies of weariness dancing on tongue-tips. do not drive it into the heart to gather strength. duryodhana unuttered defamation does not touch a king's dignity. i care not if love is refused us, but insolence shall not be borne. love depends upon the will of the giver, and the poorest of the poor can indulge in such generosity. let them squander it on their pet cats, tame dogs, and our good cousins the pandavas. i shall never envy them. fear is the tribute i claim for my royal throne. father, only too leniently you lent your ear to those who slandered your sons: but if you intend still to allow those pious friends of yours to revel in shrill denunciation at the expense of your children, let us exchange our kingdom for the exile of our cousins, and go to the wilderness, where happily friends are never cheap! dhritarashtra could the pious warnings of my friends lessen my love for my sons, then we might be saved. but i have dipped my hands in the mire of your infamy and lost my sense of goodness. for your sakes i have heedlessly set fire to the ancient forest of our royal lineage--so dire is my love. clasped breast to breast, we, like a double meteor, are blindly plunging into ruin. therefore doubt not my love; relax not your embrace till the brink of annihilation be reached. beat your drums of victory, lift your banner of triumph. in this mad riot of exultant evil, brothers and friends will disperse till nothing remain save the doomed father, the doomed son and god's curse. _enter an attendant_ sire, queen gandhari asks for audience. dhritarashtra i await her. duryodhana let me take my leave. [_exit._ dhritarashtra fly! for you cannot bear the fire of your mother's presence. _enter_ queen gandhari, _the mother of_ duryodhana gandhari at your feet i crave a boon. dhritarashtra speak, your wish is fulfilled. gandhari the time has come to renounce him. dhritarashtra whom, my queen? gandhari duryodhana! dhritarashtra our own son, duryodhana? gandhari yes! dhritarashtra this is a terrible boon for you, his mother, to crave! gandhari the fathers of the kauravas, who are in paradise, join me in beseeching you. dhritarashtra the divine judge will punish him who has broken his laws. but i am his father. gandhari am i not his mother? have i not carried him under my throbbing heart? yes, i ask you to renounce duryodhana the unrighteous. dhritarashtra what will remain to us after that? gandhari god's blessing. dhritarashtra and what will that bring us? gandhari new afflictions. pleasure in our son's presence, pride in a new kingdom, and shame at knowing both purchased by wrong done or connived at, like thorns dragged two ways, would lacerate our bosoms. the pandavas are too proud ever to accept back from us the lands which they have relinquished; therefore it is only meet that we draw some great sorrow down on our heads so as to deprive that unmerited reward of its sting. dhritarashtra queen, you inflict fresh pain on a heart already rent. gandhari sire, the punishment imposed on our son will be more ours than his. a judge callous to the pain that he inflicts loses the right to judge. and if you spare your son to save yourself pain, then all the culprits ever punished by your hands will cry before god's throne for vengeance,--had they not also their fathers? dhritarashtra no more of this, queen, i pray you. our son is abandoned of god: that is why i cannot give him up. to save him is no longer in my power, and therefore my consolation is to share his guilt and tread the path of destruction, his solitary companion. what is done is done; let follow what must follow! [_exit._ gandhari be calm, my heart, and patiently await god's judgment. oblivious night wears on, the morning of reckoning nears, i hear the thundering roar of its chariot. woman, bow your head down to the dust! and as a sacrifice fling your heart under those wheels! darkness will shroud the sky, earth will tremble, wailing will rend the air and then comes the silent and cruel end,--that terrible peace, that great forgetting, and awful extinction of hatred--the supreme deliverance rising from the fire of death. 33 fiercely they rend in pieces the carpet woven during ages of prayer for the welcome of the world's best hope. the great preparations of love lie a heap of shreds, and there is nothing on the ruined altar to remind the mad crowd that their god was to have come. in a fury of passion they seem to have burnt their future to cinders, and with it the season of their bloom. the air is harsh with the cry, "victory to the brute!" the children look haggard and aged; they whisper to one another that time revolves but never advances, that we are goaded to run but have nothing to reach, that creation is like a blind man's groping. i said to myself, "cease thy singing. song is for one who is to come, the struggle without an end is for things that are." the road, that ever lies along like some one with ear to the ground listening for footsteps, to-day gleans no hint of coming guest, nothing of the house at its far end. my lute said, "trample me in the dust." i looked at the dust by the roadside. there was a tiny flower among thorns. and i cried, "the world's hope is not dead!" the sky stooped over the horizon to whisper to the earth, and a hush of expectation filled the air. i saw the palm leaves clapping their hands to the beat of inaudible music, and the moon exchanged glances with the glistening silence of the lake. the road said to me, "fear nothing!" and my lute said, "lend me thy songs!" 34 translations baul songs[1] [footnote 1: the bauls are a sect of religious mendicants in bengal, unlettered and unconventional, whose songs are loved and sung by the people. the literal meaning of the word "baul" is "the mad."] 1 this longing to meet in the play of love, my lover, is not only mine but yours. your lips can smile, your flute make music, only through delight in my love; therefore you are importunate even as i. 2 i sit here on the road; do not ask me to walk further. if your love can be complete without mine let me turn back from seeking you. i refuse to beg a sight of you if you do not feel my need. i am blind with market dust and mid-day glare, and so wait, in hopes that your heart, my heart's lover, will send you to find me. 3 i am poured forth in living notes of joy and sorrow by your breath. mornings and evenings in summer and in rains, i am fashioned to music. should i be wholly spent in some flight of song, i shall not grieve, the tune is so dear to me. 4 my heart is a flute he has played on. if ever it fall into other hands let him fling it away. my lover's flute is dear to him, therefore if to-day alien breath have entered it and sounded strange notes, let him break it to pieces and strew the dust with them. 5 in love the aim is neither pain nor pleasure but love only. while free love binds, division destroys it, for love is what unites. love is lit from love as fire from fire, but whence came the first flame? in your being it leaps under the rod of pain. then, when the hidden fire flames forth, the in and the out are one and all barriers fall in ashes. let the pain glow fiercely, burst from the heart and beat back darkness, need you be afraid? the poet says, "who can buy love without paying its price? when you fail to give yourself you make the whole world miserly." 6 eyes see only dust and earth, but feel with the heart, and know pure joy. the delights blossom on all sides in every form, but where is your heart's thread to make a wreath of them? my master's flute sounds through all things, drawing me out of my lodgings wherever they may be, and while i listen i know that every step i take is in my master's house. for he is the sea, he is the river that leads to the sea, and he is the landing-place. 7 strange ways has my guest. he comes at times when i am unprepared, yet how can i refuse him? i watch all night with lighted lamp; he stays away; when the light goes out and the room is bare he comes claiming his seat, and can i keep him waiting? i laugh and make merry with friends, then suddenly i start up, for lo! he passes me by in sorrow, and i know my mirth was vain. i have often seen a smile in his eyes when my heart ached, then i knew my sorrow was not real. yet i never complain when i do not understand him. 8 i am the boat, you are the sea, and also the boatman. though you never make the shore, though you let me sink, why should i be foolish and afraid? is reaching the shore a greater prize than losing myself with you? if you are only the haven, as they say, then what is the sea? let it surge and toss me on its waves, i shall be content. i live in you whatever and however you appear. save me or kill me as you wish, only never leave me in other hands. 9 make way, o bud, make way, burst open thy heart and make way. the opening spirit has overtaken thee, canst thou remain a bud any longer? iii 1 come, spring, reckless lover of the earth, make the forest's heart pant for utterance! come in gusts of disquiet where flowers break open and jostle the new leaves! burst, like a rebellion of light, through the night's vigil, through the lake's dark dumbness, through the dungeon under the dust, proclaiming freedom to the shackled seeds! like the laughter of lightning, like the shout of a storm, break into the midst of the noisy town; free stifled word and unconscious effort, reinforce our flagging fight, and conquer death! 2 i have looked on this picture in many a month of march when the mustard is in bloom--this lazy line of the water and the grey of the sand beyond, the rough path along the river-bank carrying the comradeship of the field into the heart of the village. i have tried to capture in rhyme the idle whistle of the wind, the beat of the oar-strokes from a passing boat. i have wondered in my mind how simply it stands before me, this great world: with what fond and familiar ease it fills my heart, this encounter with the eternal stranger. 3 the ferry-boat plies between the two villages facing each other across the narrow stream. the water is neither wide nor deep--a mere break in the path that enhances the small adventures of daily life, like a break in the words of a song across which the tune gleefully streams. while the towers of wealth rise high and crash to ruin, these villages talk to each other across the garrulous stream, and the ferry-boat plies between them, age after age, from seed-time to harvest. 4 in the evening after they have brought their cattle home, they sit on the grass before their huts to know that you are among them unseen, to repeat in their songs the name which they have fondly given you. while kings' crowns shine and disappear like falling stars, around village huts your name rises through the still night from the simple hearts of your lovers whose names are unrecorded. 5 in baby's world, the trees shake their leaves at him, murmuring verses in an ancient tongue that dates from before the age of meaning, and the moon feigns to be of his own age--the solitary baby of night. in the world of the old, flowers dutifully blush at the make-believe of faery legends, and broken dolls confess that they are made of clay. 6 _my world_, when i was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving timid stranger. then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and flowers and shells. next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness. at length you told me stories about bygone times, with which the present ever longs to meet so as to be rescued from its prison in the moment. 7 how often, great earth, have i felt my being yearn to flow over you, sharing in the happiness of each green blade that raises its signal banner in answer to the beckoning blue of the sky! i feel as if i had belonged to you ages before i was born. that is why, in the days when the autumn light shimmers on the mellowing ears of rice, i seem to remember a past when my mind was everywhere, and even to hear voices as of playfellows echoing from the remote and deeply veiled past. when, in the evening, the cattle return to their folds, raising dust from the meadow paths, as the moon rises higher than the smoke ascending from the village huts, i feel sad as for some great separation that happened in the first morning of existence. 8 my mind still buzzed with the cares of a busy day; i sat on without noting how twilight was deepening into dark. suddenly light stirred across the gloom and touched me as with a finger. i lifted my head and met the gaze of the full moon widened in wonder like a child's. it held my eyes for long, and i felt as though a love-letter had been secretly dropped in at my window. and ever since my heart is breaking to write for answer something fragrant as night's unseen flowers--great as her declaration spelt out in nameless stars. 9 the clouds thicken till the morning light seems like a bedraggled fringe to the rainy night. a little girl stands at her window, still as a rainbow at the gate of a broken-down storm. she is my neighbour, and has come upon the earth like some god's rebellious laughter. her mother in anger calls her incorrigible; her father smiles and calls her mad. she is like a runaway waterfall leaping over boulders, like the topmost bamboo twig rustling in the restless wind. she stands at her window looking out into the sky. her sister comes to say, "mother calls you." she shakes her head. her little brother with his toy boat comes and tries to pull her off to play; she snatches her hand from his. the boy persists and she gives him a slap on the back. the first great voice was the voice of wind and water in the beginning of earth's creation. that ancient cry of nature--her dumb call to unborn life--has reached this child's heart and leads it out alone beyond the fence of our times: so there she stands, possessed by eternity! 10 the kingfisher sits still on the prow of an empty boat, while in the shallow margin of the stream a buffalo lies tranquilly blissful, its eyes half closed to savour the luxury of cool mud. undismayed by the barking of the village cur, the cow browses on the bank, followed by a hopping group of _saliks_ hunting moths. i sit in the tamarind grove, where the cries of dumb life congregate--the cattle's lowing, the sparrows' chatter, the shrill scream of a kite overhead, the crickets' chirp, and the splash of a fish in the water. i peep into the primeval nursery of life, where the mother earth thrills at the first living clutch near her breast. 11 at the sleepy village the noon was still like a sunny midnight when my holidays came to their end. my little girl of four had followed me all the morning from room to room, watching my preparations in grave silence, till, wearied, she sat by the doorpost strangely quiet, murmuring to herself, "father must not go!" this was the meal hour, when sleep daily overcame her, but her mother had forgotten her and the child was too unhappy to complain. at last, when i stretched out my arms to her to say farewell, she never moved, but sadly looking at me said, "father, you must not go!" and it amused me to tears to think how this little child dared to fight the giant world of necessity with no other resource than those few words, "father, you must not go!" 12 take your holiday, my boy; there are the blue sky and the bare field, the barn and the ruined temple under the ancient tamarind. my holiday must be taken through yours, finding light in the dance of your eyes, music in your noisy shouts. to you autumn brings the true holiday freedom: to me it brings the impossibility of work; for lo! you burst into my room. yes, my holiday is an endless freedom for love to disturb me. 13 in the evening my little daughter heard a call from her companions below the window. she timidly went down the dark stairs holding a lamp in her hand, shielding it behind her veil. i was sitting on my terrace in the star-lit night of march, when at a sudden cry i ran to see. her lamp had gone out in the dark spiral staircase. i asked, "child, why did you cry?" from below she answered in distress, "father, i have lost myself!" when i came back to the terrace under the star-lit night of march, i looked at the sky, and it seemed that a child was walking there treasuring many lamps behind her veils. if their light went out, she would suddenly stop and a cry would sound from sky to sky, "father, i have lost myself!" 14 the evening stood bewildered among street lamps, its gold tarnished by the city dust. a woman, gaudily decked and painted, leant over the rail of her balcony, a living fire waiting for its moths. suddenly an eddy was formed in the road round a street-boy crushed under the wheels of a carriage, and the woman on the balcony fell to the floor screaming in agony, stricken with the grief of the great white-robed mother who sits in the world's inner shrine. 15 i remember the scene on the barren heath--a girl sat alone on the grass before the gipsy camp, braiding her hair in the afternoon shade. her little dog jumped and barked at her busy hands, as though her employment had no importance. in vain did she rebuke it, calling it "a pest," saying she was tired of its perpetual silliness. she struck it on the nose with her reproving forefinger, which only seemed to delight it the more. she looked menacingly grave for a few moments, to warn it of impending doom; and then, letting her hair fall, quickly snatched it up in her arms, laughed, and pressed it to her heart. 16 he is tall and lean, withered to the bone with long repeated fever, like a dead tree unable to draw a single drop of sap from anywhere. in despairing patience, his mother carries him like a child into the sun, where he sits by the roadside in the shortening shadows of each forenoon. the world passes by--a woman to fetch water, a herd-boy with cattle to pasture, a laden cart to the distant market--and the mother hopes that some least stir of life may touch the awful torpor of her dying son. 17 if the ragged villager, trudging home from the market, could suddenly be lifted to the crest of a distant age, men would stop in their work and shout and run to him in delight. for they would no longer whittle down the man into the peasant, but find him full of the mystery and spirit of his age. even his poverty and pain would grow great, released from the shallow insult of the present, and the paltry things in his basket would acquire pathetic dignity. 18 with the morning he came out to walk a road shaded by a file of deodars, that coiled the hill round like importunate love. he held the first letter from his newly wedded wife in their village home, begging him to come to her, and come soon. the touch of an absent hand haunted him as he walked, and the air seemed to take up the cry of the letter: "love, my love, my sky is brimming with tears!" he asked himself in wonder, "how do i deserve this?" the sun suddenly appeared over the rim of the blue hills, and four girls from a foreign shore came with swift strides, talking loud and followed by a barking dog. the two elder turned away to conceal their amusement at something strange in his insignificance, and the younger ones pushed each other, laughed aloud, and ran off in exuberant mirth. he stopped and his head sank. then he suddenly felt his letter, opened and read it again. 19 the day came for the image from the temple to be drawn round the holy town in its chariot. the queen said to the king, "let us go and attend the festival." only one man out of the whole household did not join in the pilgrimage. his work was to collect stalks of spear-grass to make brooms for the king's house. the chief of the servants said in pity to him, "you may come with us." he bowed his head, saying, "it cannot be." the man dwelt by the road along which the king's followers had to pass. and when the minister's elephant reached this spot, he called to him and said, "come with us and see the god ride in his chariot!" "i dare not seek god after the king's fashion," said the man. "how should you ever have such luck again as to see the god in his chariot?" asked the minister. "when god himself comes to my door," answered the man. the minister laughed loud and said, "fool! 'when god comes to your door!' yet a king must travel to see him!" "who except god visits the poor?" said the man. 20 days were drawing out as the winter ended, and, in the sun, my dog played in his wild way with the pet deer. the crowd going to the market gathered by the fence, and laughed to see the love of these playmates struggle with languages so dissimilar. the spring was in the air, and the young leaves fluttered like flames. a gleam danced in the deer's dark eyes when she started, bent her neck at the movement of her own shadow, or raised her ears to listen to some whisper in the wind. the message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and glimmer abroad in the april sky. it sings of the first ache of youth in the world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known. and one afternoon, when among the _amlak_ trees the shadow grew grave and sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a meteor in love with death. it grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back. my dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which seemed to say, "i do not understand!" but who does ever understand? 21 our lane is tortuous, as if, ages ago, she started in quest of her goal, vacillated right and left, and remained bewildered for ever. above in the air, between her buildings, hangs like a ribbon a strip torn out of space: she calls it her sister of the blue town. she sees the sun only for a few moments at mid-day, and asks herself in wise doubt, "is it real?" in june rain sometimes shades her band of daylight as with pencil hatchings. the path grows slippery with mud, and umbrellas collide. sudden jets of water from spouts overhead splash on her startled pavement. in her dismay, she takes it for the jest of an unmannerly scheme of creation. the spring breeze, gone astray in her coil of contortions, stumbles like a drunken vagabond against angle and corner, filling the dusty air with scraps of paper and rag. "what fury of foolishness! are the gods gone mad?" she exclaims in indignation. but the daily refuse from the houses on both sides--scales of fish mixed with ashes, vegetable peelings, rotten fruit, and dead rats--never rouse her to question, "why should these things be?" she accepts every stone of her paving. but from between their chinks sometimes a blade of grass peeps up. that baffles her. how can solid facts permit such intrusion? on a morning when at the touch of autumn light her houses wake up into beauty from their foul dreams, she whispers to herself, "there is a limitless wonder somewhere beyond these buildings." but the hours pass on; the households are astir; the maid strolls back from the market, swinging her right arm and with the left clasping the basket of provisions to her side; the air grows thick with the smell and smoke of kitchens. it again becomes clear to our lane that the real and normal consist solely of herself, her houses, and their muck-heaps. 22 the house, lingering on after its wealth has vanished, stands by the wayside like a madman with a patched rag over his back. day after day scars it with spiteful scratches, and rainy months leave their fantastic signatures on its bared bricks. in a deserted upper room one of a pair of doors has fallen from rusty hinges; and the other, widowed, bangs day and night to the fitful gusts. one night the sound of women wailing came from that house. they mourned the death of the last son of the family, a boy of eighteen, who earned his living by playing the part of the heroine in a travelling theatre. a few days more and the house became silent, and all the doors were locked. only on the north side in the upper room that desolate door would neither drop off to its rest nor be shut, but swung to and fro in the wind like a self-torturing soul. after a time children's voices echo once more through that house. over the balcony-rail women's clothes are hung in the sun, a bird whistles from a covered cage, and a boy plays with his kite on the terrace. a tenant has come to occupy a few rooms. he earns little and has many children. the tired mother beats them and they roll on the floor and shriek. a maid-servant of forty drudges through the day, quarrels with her mistress, threatens to, but never leaves. every day some small repairs are done. paper is pasted in place of missing panes; gaps in the railings are made good with split bamboo; an empty box keeps the boltless gate shut; old stains vaguely show through new whitewash on the walls. the magnificence of wealth had found a fitting memorial in gaunt desolation; but, lacking sufficient means, they try to hide this with dubious devices, and its dignity is outraged. they have overlooked the deserted room on the north side. and its forlorn door still bangs in the wind, like despair beating her breast. 23 in the depths of the forest the ascetic practised penance with fast-closed eyes; he intended to deserve paradise. but the girl who gathered twigs brought him fruits in her skirt, and water from the stream in cups made of leaves. the days went on, and his penance grew harsher till the fruits remained untasted, the water untouched: and the girl who gathered twigs was sad. the lord of paradise heard that a man had dared to aspire to be as the gods. time after time he had fought the titans, who were his peers, and kept them out of his kingdom; yet he feared a man whose power was that of suffering. but he knew the ways of mortals, and he planned a temptation to decoy this creature of dust away from his adventure. a breath from paradise kissed the limbs of the girl who gathered twigs, and her youth ached with a sudden rapture of beauty, and her thoughts hummed like the bees of a rifled hive. the time came when the ascetic should leave the forest for a mountain cave, to complete the rigour of his penance. when he opened his eyes in order to start on this journey, the girl appeared to him like a verse familiar, yet forgotten, and which an added melody made strange. the ascetic rose from his seat and told her that it was time he left the forest. "but why rob me of my chance to serve you?" she asked with tears in her eyes. he sat down again, thought for long, and remained on where he was. that night remorse kept the girl awake. she began to dread her power and hate her triumph, yet her mind tossed on the waves of turbulent delight. in the morning she came and saluted the ascetic and asked his blessing, saying she must leave him. he gazed on her face in silence, then said, "go, and may your wish be fulfilled." for years he sat alone till his penance was complete. the lord of the immortals came down to tell him that he had won paradise. "i no longer need it," said he. the god asked him what greater reward he desired. "i want the girl who gathers twigs." 24 they said that kabir, the weaver, was favoured of god, and the crowd flocked round him for medicine and miracles. but he was troubled; his low birth had hitherto endowed him with a most precious obscurity to sweeten with songs and with the presence of his god. he prayed that it might be restored. envious of the repute of this outcast, the priests leagued themselves with a harlot to disgrace him. kabir came to the market to sell cloths from his loom; when the woman grasped his hand, blaming him for being faithless, and followed him to his house, saying she would not be forsaken, kabir said to himself, "god answers prayers in his own way." soon the woman felt a shiver of fear and fell on her knees and cried, "save me from my sin!" to which he said, "open your life to god's light!" kabir worked at his loom and sang, and his songs washed the stains from that woman's heart, and by way of return found a home in her sweet voice. one day the king, in a fit of caprice, sent a message to kabir to come and sing before him. the weaver shook his head: but the messenger dared not leave his door till his master's errand was fulfilled. the king and his courtiers started at the sight of kabir when he entered the hall. for he was not alone, the woman followed him. some smiled, some frowned, and the king's face darkened at the beggar's pride and shamelessness. kabir came back to his house disgraced, the woman fell at his feet crying, "why accept such dishonour for my sake, master? suffer me to go back to my infamy!" kabir said, "i dare not turn my god away when he comes branded with insult." 25 somaka and ritvik somaka and ritvik _the shade of_ king somaka, _faring to heaven in a chariot, passes other shades by the roadside, among them that of_ ritvik, _his former high-priest_. a voice where would you go, king? somaka whose voice is that? this turbid air is like suffocation to the eyes; i cannot see. the voice come down, king! come down from that chariot bound for heaven. somaka who are you? the voice i am ritvik, who in my earthly life was your preceptor and the chief priest of your house. somaka master, all the tears of the world seem to have become vapour to create this realm of vagueness. what make you here? shades this hell lies hard by the road to heaven, whence lights glimmer dimly, only to prove unapproachable. day and night we listen to the heavenly chariot rumbling by with travellers for that region of bliss; it drives sleep from our eyes and forces them to watch in fruitless jealousy. far below us earth's old forests rustle and her seas chant the primal hymn of creation: they sound like the wail of a memory that wanders void space in vain. ritvik come down, king! shades stop a few moments among us. the earth's tears still cling about you, like dew on freshly culled flowers. you have brought with you the mingled odours of meadow and forest; reminiscence of children, women, and comrades; something too of the ineffable music of the seasons. somaka master, why are you doomed to live in this muffled stagnant world? ritvik i offered up your son in the sacrificial fire: _that_ sin has lodged my soul in this obscurity. shades king, tell us the story, we implore you; the recital of crime can still bring life's fire into our torpor. somaka i was named somaka, the king of videha. after sacrificing at innumerable shrines weary year on year, a son was born to my house in my old age, love for whom, like a sudden untimely flood, swept consideration for everything else from my life. he hid me completely, as a lotus hides its stem. the neglected duties of a king piled up in shame before my throne. one day, in my audience hall, i heard my child cry from his mother's room, and instantly rushed away, vacating my throne. ritvik just then, it chanced, i entered the hall to give him my daily benediction; in blind haste he brushed me aside and enkindled my anger. when later he came back, shame-faced, i asked him: "king, what desperate alarm could draw you at the busiest hour of the day to the women's apartments, so as to desert your dignity and duty--ambassadors come from friendly courts, the aggrieved who ask for justice, your ministers waiting to discuss matters of grave import? and even lead you to slight a brahmin's blessing?" somaka at first my heart flamed with anger; the next moment i trampled it down like the raised head of a snake and meekly replied: "having only one child, i have lost my peace of mind. forgive me this once, and i promise that in future the father's infatuation shall never usurp the king." ritvik but my heart was bitter with resentment, and i said, "if you must be delivered from the curse of having only one child, i can show you the way. but so hard is it that i feel certain you will fail to follow it." this galled the king's pride and he stood up and exclaimed, "i swear, by all that is sacred, as a kshatriya and a king, i will not shrink, but perform whatever you may ask, however hard." "then listen," said i. "light a sacrificial fire, offer up your son: the smoke that rises will bring you progeny, as the clouds bring rain." the king bowed his head upon his breast and remained silent: the courtiers shouted their horror, the brahmins clapped their hands over their ears, crying, "sin it is both to utter and listen to such words." after some moments of bewildered dismay the king calmly said, "i will abide by my promise." the day came, the fire was lit, the town was emptied of its people, the child was called for; but the attendants refused to obey, the soldiers rebelliously went off duty, throwing down their arms. then i, who in my wisdom had soared far above all weakness of heart and to whom emotions were illusory, went myself to the apartment where, with their arms, women fenced the child like a flower surrounded by the menacing branches of a tree. he saw me and stretched out eager hands and struggled to come to me, for he longed to be free from the love that imprisoned him. crying, "i am come to give you true deliverance," i snatched him by force from his fainting mother and his nurses wailing in despair. with quivering tongues the fire licked the sky and the king stood beside it, still and silent, like a tree struck dead by lightning. fascinated by the godlike splendour of the blaze, the child babbled in glee and danced in my arms, impatient to seek an unknown nurse in the free glory of those flames. somaka stop, no more, i pray! shades ritvik, your presence is a disgrace to hell itself! the charioteer this is no place for you, king! nor have you deserved to be forced to listen to this recital of a deed which makes hell shudder in pity. somaka drive off in your chariot!--brahmin, my place is by you in this hell. the gods may forget my sin, but can i forget the last look of agonised surprise on my child's face when, for one terrible moment, he realised that his own father had betrayed his trust? _enter_ dharma, _the judge of departed spirits_ dharma king, heaven waits for you. somaka no, not for me. i killed my own child. dharma your sin has been swept away in the fury of pain it caused you. ritvik no, king, you must never go to heaven alone, and thus create a second hell for me, to burn both with fire and with hatred of you! stay here! somaka i will stay. shades and crown the despair and inglorious suffering of hell with the triumph of a soul! 26 the man had no useful work, only vagaries of various kinds. therefore it surprised him to find himself in paradise after a life spent perfecting trifles. now the guide had taken him by mistake to the wrong paradise--one meant only for good, busy souls. in this paradise, our man saunters along the road only to obstruct the rush of business. he stands aside from the path and is warned that he tramples on sown seed. pushed, he starts up: hustled, he moves on. a very busy girl comes to fetch water from the well. her feet run on the pavement like rapid fingers over harp-strings. hastily she ties a negligent knot with her hair, and loose locks on her forehead pry into the dark of her eyes. the man says to her, "would you lend me your pitcher?" "my pitcher?" she asks, "to draw water?" "no, to paint patterns on." "i have no time to waste," the girl retorts in contempt. now a busy soul has no chance against one who is supremely idle. every day she meets him at the well, and every day he repeats the same request, till at last she yields. our man paints the pitcher with curious colours in a mysterious maze of lines. the girl takes it up, turns it round and asks, "what does it mean?" "it has no meaning," he answers. the girl carries the pitcher home. she holds it up in different lights and tries to con its mystery. at night she leaves her bed, lights a lamp, and gazes at it from all points of view. this is the first time she has met with something without meaning. on the next day the man is again near the well. the girl asks, "what do you want?" "to do more work for you." "what work?" she enquires. "allow me to weave coloured strands into a ribbon to bind your hair." "is there any need?" she asks. "none whatever," he allows. the ribbon is made, and thence-forward she spends a great deal of time over her hair. the even stretch of well-employed time in that paradise begins to show irregular rents. the elders are troubled; they meet in council. the guide confesses his blunder, saying that he has brought the wrong man to the wrong place. the wrong man is called. his turban, flaming with colour, shows plainly how great that blunder has been. the chief of the elders says, "you must go back to the earth." the man heaves a sigh of relief: "i am ready." the girl with the ribbon round her hair chimes in: "i also!" for the first time the chief of the elders is faced with a situation which has no sense in it. 27 it is said that in the forest, near the meeting of river and lake, certain fairies live in disguise who are only recognised as fairies after they have flown away. a prince went to this forest, and when he came where river met lake he saw a village girl sitting on the bank ruffling the water to make the lilies dance. he asked her in a whisper, "tell me, what fairy art thou?" the girl laughed at the question and the hillsides echoed her mirth. the prince thought she was the laughing fairy of the waterfall. news reached the king that the prince had married a fairy: he sent horses and men and brought them to his house. the queen saw the bride and turned her face away in disgust, the prince's sister flushed red with annoyance, and the maids asked if that was how fairies dressed. the prince whispered, "hush! my fairy has come to our house in disguise." on the day of the yearly festival the queen said to her son, "ask your bride not to shame us before our kinsfolk who are coming to see the fairy." and the prince said to his bride, "for my love's sake show thy true self to my people." long she sat silent, then nodded her promise while tears ran down her cheeks. the full moon shone, the prince, dressed in a wedding robe, entered his bride's room. no one was there, nothing but a streak of moonlight from the window aslant the bed. the kinsfolk crowded in with the king and the queen, the prince's sister stood by the door. all asked, "where is the fairy bride?" the prince answered, "she has vanished for ever to make herself known to you." 28 karna and kunti karna and kunti _the pandava queen kunti before marriage had a son, karna, who, in manhood, became the commander of the kaurava host. to hide her shame she abandoned him at birth, and a charioteer, adhiratha, brought him up as his son._ karna i am karna, the son of the charioteer, adhiratha, and i sit here by the bank of holy ganges to worship the setting sun. tell me who you are. kunti i am the woman who first made you acquainted with that light you are worshipping. karna i do not understand: but your eyes melt my heart as the kiss of the morning sun melts the snow on a mountain-top, and your voice rouses a blind sadness within me of which the cause may well lie beyond the reach of my earliest memory. tell me, strange woman, what mystery binds my birth to you? kunti patience, my son. i will answer when the lids of darkness come down over the prying eyes of day. in the meanwhile, know that i am kunti. karna kunti! the mother of arjuna? kunti yes, indeed, the mother of arjuna, your antagonist. but do not, therefore, hate me. i still remember the day of the trial of arms in hastina when you, an unknown boy, boldly stepped into the arena, like the first ray of dawn among the stars of night. ah! who was that unhappy woman whose eyes kissed your bare, slim body through tears that blessed you, where she sat among the women of the royal household behind the arras? why, the mother of arjuna! then the brahmin, master of arms, stepped forth and said, "no youth of mean birth may challenge arjuna to a trial of strength." you stood speechless, like a thunder-cloud at sunset flashing with an agony of suppressed light. but who was the woman whose heart caught fire from your shame and anger, and flared up in silence? the mother of arjuna! praised be duryodhana, who perceived your worth, and then and there crowned you king of anga, thus winning the kauravas a champion. overwhelmed at this good fortune, adhiratha, the charioteer, broke through the crowd; you instantly rushed to him and laid your crown at his feet amid the jeering laughter of the pandavas and their friends. but there was one woman of the pandava house whose heart glowed with joy at the heroic pride of such humility;--even the mother of arjuna! karna but what brings you here alone, mother of kings? kunti i have a boon to crave. karna command me, and whatever manhood and my honour as a kshatriya permit shall be offered at your feet. kunti i have come to take you. karna where? kunti to my breast thirsting for your love, my son. karna fortunate mother of five brave kings, where can you find place for me, a small chieftain of lowly descent? kunti your place is before all my other sons. karna but what right have i to take it? kunti your own god-given right to your mother's love. karna the gloom of evening spreads over the earth, silence rests on the water, and your voice leads me back to some primal world of infancy lost in twilit consciousness. however, whether this be dream, or fragment of forgotten reality, come near and place your right hand on my forehead. rumour runs that i was deserted by my mother. many a night she has come to me in my slumber, but when i cried: "open your veil, show me your face!" her figure always vanished. has this same dream come this evening while i wake? see, yonder the lamps are lighted in your son's tents across the river; and on this side behold the tent-domes of my kauravas, like the suspended waves of a spell-arrested storm at sea. before the din of tomorrow's battle, in the awful hush of this field where it must be fought, why should the voice of the mother of my opponent, arjuna, bring me a message of forgotten motherhood? and why should my name take such music from her tongue as to draw my heart out to him and his brothers? kunti then delay not, my son, come with me! karna yes, i will come and never ask question, never doubt. my soul responds to your call; and the struggle for victory and fame and the rage of hatred have suddenly become untrue to me, as the delirious dream of a night in the serenity of the dawn. tell me whither you mean to lead? kunti to the other bank of the river, where those lamps burn across the ghastly pallor of the sands. karna am i there to find my lost mother for ever? kunti o my son! karna then why did you banish me--a castaway uprooted from my ancestral soil, adrift in a homeless current of indignity? why set a bottomless chasm between arjuna and myself, turning the natural attachment of kinship to the dread attraction of hate? you remain speechless. your shame permeates the vast darkness and sends invisible shivers through my limbs. leave my question unanswered! never explain to me what made you rob your son of his mother's love! only tell me why you have come to-day to call me back to the ruins of a heaven wrecked by your own hands? kunti i am dogged by a curse more deadly than your reproaches: for, though surrounded by five sons, my heart shrivels like that of a woman deprived of her children. through the great rent that yawned for my deserted first-born, all my life's pleasures have run to waste. on that accursed day when i belied my motherhood you could not utter a word; to-day your recreant mother implores you for generous words. let your forgiveness burn her heart like fire and consume its sin. karna mother, accept my tears! kunti i did not come with the hope of winning you back to my arms, but with that of restoring your rights to you. come and receive, as a king's son, your due among your brothers. karna i am more truly the son of a charioteer, and do not covet the glory of greater parentage. kunti be that as it may, come and win back the kingdom, which is yours by right! karna must you, who once refused me a mother's love, tempt me with a kingdom? the quick bond of kindred which you severed at its root is dead, and can never grow again. shame were mine should i hasten to call the mother of kings mother, and abandon _my_ mother in the charioteer's house! kunti you are great, my son! how god's punishment invisibly grows from a tiny seed to a giant life! the helpless babe disowned by his mother comes back a man through the dark maze of events to smite his brothers! karna mother, have no fear! i know for certain that victory awaits the pandavas. peaceful and still though this night be, my heart is full of the music of a hopeless venture and baffled end. ask me not to leave those who are doomed to defeat. let the pandavas win the throne, since they must: i remain with the desperate and forlorn. on the night of my birth you left me naked and unnamed to disgrace: leave me once again without pity to the calm expectation of defeat and death! 29 when like a flaming scimitar the hill stream has been sheathed in gloom by the evening, suddenly a flock of birds passes overhead, their loud-laughing wings hurling their flight like an arrow among stars. it startles a passion for speed in the heart of all motionless things; the hills seem to feel in their bosom the anguish of storm-clouds, and trees long to break their rooted shackles. for me the flight of these birds has rent a veil of stillness, and reveals an immense flutter in this deep silence. i see these hills and forests fly across time to the unknown, and darkness thrill into fire as the stars wing by. i feel in my own being the rush of the sea-crossing bird, cleaving a way beyond the limits of life and death, while the migrant world cries with a myriad voices, "not here, but somewhere else, in the bosom of the faraway." 30 the crowd listens in wonder to kashi, the young singer, whose voice, like a sword in feats of skill, dances amidst hopeless tangles, cuts them to pieces, and exults. among the hearers sits old rajah pratap in weary endurance. for his own life had been nourished and encircled by barajlal's songs, like a happy land which a river laces with beauty. his rainy evenings and the still hours of autumn days spoke to his heart through barajlal's voice, and his festive nights trimmed their lamps and tinkled their bells to those songs. when kashi stopped for rest, pratap smilingly winked at barajlal and spoke to him in a whisper, "master, now let us hear music and not this new-fangled singing, which mimics frisky kittens hunting paralysed mice." the old singer with his spotlessly white turban made a deep bow to the assembly and took his seat. his thin fingers struck the strings of his instrument, his eyes closed, and in timid hesitation his song began. the hall was large, his voice feeble, and pratap shouted "bravo!" with ostentation, but whispered in his ear, "just a little louder, friend!" the crowd was restless; some yawned, some dozed, some complained of the heat. the air of the hall hummed with many-toned inattention, and the song, like a frail boat, tossed upon it in vain till it sank under the hubbub. suddenly the old man, stricken at heart, forgot a passage, and his voice groped in agony, like a blind man at a fair for his lost leader. he tried to fill the gap with any strain that came. but the gap still yawned: and the tortured notes refused to serve the need, suddenly changed their tune, and broke into a sob. the master laid his head on his instrument, and in place of his forgotten music, there broke from him the first cry of life that a child brings into the world. pratap touched him gently on his shoulder, and said, "come away, our meeting is elsewhere. i know, my friend, that truth is widowed without love, and beauty dwells not with the many, nor in the moment." 31 in the youth of the world, himalaya, you sprang from the rent breast of the earth, and hurled your burning challenges to the sun, hill after hill. then came the mellow time when you said to yourself, "no more, no further!" and your fiery heart, that raged for the freedom of clouds, found its limits, and stood still to salute the limitless. after this check on your passion, beauty was free to play upon your breast, and trust surrounded you with the joy of flowers and birds. you sit in your solitude like a great reader, on whose lap lies open some ancient book with its countless pages of stone. what story is written there, i wonder?--is it the eternal wedding of the divine ascetic, shiva, with bhavani, the divine love?--the drama of the terrible wooing the power of the frail? 32 i feel that my heart will leave its own colour in all your scenes, o earth, when i bid you farewell. some notes of mine will be added to your seasons' melody, and my thoughts will breathe unrecognised through the cycle of shadows and sunshine. in far-distant days summer will come to the lovers' garden, but they will not know that their flowers have borrowed an added beauty from my songs, nor that their love for this world has been deepened by mine. 33 my eyes feel the deep peace of this sky, and there stirs through me what a tree feels when it holds out its leaves like cups to be filled with sunshine. a thought rises in my mind, like the warm breath from grass in the sun; it mingles with the gurgle of lapping water and the sigh of weary wind in village lanes,--the thought that i have lived along with the whole life of this world and have given to it my own love and sorrows. 34 i ask no reward for the songs i sang you. i shall be content if they live through the night, until dawn, like a shepherd-maiden, calls away the stars, in alarm at the sun. but there were moments when you sang your songs to me, and as my pride knows, my poet, you will ever remember that i listened and lost my heart. 35 in the morning, when the dew glistened upon the grass, you came and gave a push to my swing; but, sweeping from smiles to tears, i did not know you. then came april's noon of gorgeous light, and i think you beckoned me to follow you. but when i sought your face, there passed between us the procession of flowers, and men and women flinging their songs to the south wind. daily i passed you unheeded on the road. but on some days full of the faint smell of oleanders, when the wind was wilful among complaining palm leaves, i would stand before you wondering if you ever had been a stranger to me. 36 the day grew dim. the early evening star faltered near the edge of a grey lonely sky. i looked back and felt that the road lying behind me was infinitely removed; traced through my life, it had only served for a single journey and was never to be re-travelled. the long story of my coming hither lies there dumb, in one meandering line of dust stretching from the morning hilltop to the brink of bottomless night. i sit alone, and wonder if this road is like an instrument waiting to give up the day's lost voices in music when touched by divine fingers at nightfall. 37 give me the supreme courage of love, this is my prayer--the courage to speak, to do, to suffer at thy will, to leave all things or be left alone. strengthen me on errands of danger, honour me with pain, and help me climb to that difficult mood which sacrifices daily to thee. give me the supreme confidence of love, this is my prayer--the confidence that belongs to life in death, to victory in defeat, to the power hidden in frailest beauty, to that dignity in pain which accepts hurt but disdains to return it. 38 translations from hindi songs of jnanadas 1 where were your songs, my bird, when you spent your nights in the nest? was not all your pleasure stored therein? what makes you lose your heart to the sky--the sky that is boundless? _answer_ while i rested within bounds i was content. but when i soared into vastness i found i could sing. 2 messenger, morning brought you, habited in gold. after sunset your song wore a tune of ascetic grey, and then came night. your message was written in bright letters across black. why is such splendour about you to lure the heart of one who is nothing? _answer_ great is the festival hall where you are to be the only guest. therefore the letter to you is written from sky to sky, and i, the proud servant, bring the invitation with all ceremony. 3 i had travelled all day and was tired, then i bowed my head towards thy kingly court still far away. the night deepened, a longing burned in my heart; whatever the words i sang, pain cried through them, for even my songs thirsted. o my lover, my beloved, my best in all the world! when time seemed lost in darkness thy hand dropped its sceptre to take up the lute and strike the uttermost chords; and my heart sang out, o my lover, my beloved, my best in all the world! ah, who is this whose arms enfold me? whatever i have to leave let me leave, and whatever i have to bear let me bear. only let me walk with thee, o my lover, my beloved, my best in all the world! descend at whiles from thine audience hall, come down amid joys and sorrows; hide in all forms and delights, in love and in my heart; there sing thy songs, o my lover, my beloved, my best in all the world! the end 