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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Gitanjali
+
+Author: Rabindranath Tagore
+
+Release Date: March 18, 2003 [eBook #7164]
+[Most recently updated: December 10, 2023]
+
+Language: English
+
+Produced by: John B. Hare, Chetan Jain, Viswas G and Anand Rao
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***
+
+
+
+
+Gitanjali
+
+Song Offerings
+
+by Rabindranath Tagore
+
+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.”
+
+
+II
+
+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.
+
+
+III
+
+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
+
+
+
+
+1.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+2.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+3.
+
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+4.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+5.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+6.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+7.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+8.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+9.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+10.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+11.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+12.
+
+
+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!”
+
+
+
+
+13.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+14.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+15.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+16.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+17.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+18.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+19.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+20.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+21.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+22.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+23.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+24.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+25.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+26.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+27.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+28.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+29.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+30.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+31.
+
+
+“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.”
+
+
+
+
+32.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+33.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+34.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+35.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+36.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+37.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+38.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+39.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+40.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+41.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+42.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+43.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+44.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+45.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+46.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+47.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+48.
+
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+49.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+50.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+51.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+52.
+
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+53.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+54.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+55.
+
+
+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?
+
+
+
+
+56.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+57.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+58.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+59.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+60.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+61.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+62.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+63.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+64.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+65.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+66.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+67.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+68.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+69.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+70.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+71.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+72.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+73.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+74.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+75.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+76.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+77.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+78.
+
+
+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!”
+
+
+
+
+79.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+80.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+81.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+82.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+83.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+84.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+85.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+86.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+87.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+88.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+89.
+
+
+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!
+
+
+
+
+90.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+91.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+92.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+93.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+94.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+95.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+96.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+97.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+98.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+99.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+100.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+101.
+
+
+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 they brought
+me in the evening at the end of my journey?
+
+
+
+
+102.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+103.
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***
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diff --git a/7164-h/7164-h.htm b/7164-h/7164-h.htm
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+<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
+at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you
+are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the
+country where you are located before using this eBook.
+</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Gitanjali</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Rabindranath Tagore</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 18, 2003 [eBook #7164]<br />
+[Most recently updated: December 10, 2023]</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
+<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: John B. Hare, Chetan Jain, Viswas G and Anand Rao</div>
+<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***</div>
+
+<h1>Gitanjali</h1>
+
+<p class="center">
+Song Offerings
+</p>
+
+<h2 class="no-break">by Rabindranath Tagore</h2>
+
+<p class="center">
+A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bengali
+</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+With an introduction by<br />
+W. B. YEATS
+</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p class="center">
+TO<br />
+WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.”
+</p>
+
+<h3>II</h3>
+
+<p>
+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 <i>Troilus and Cressida</i>, 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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h3>III</h3>
+
+<p>
+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.”
+</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+W.B. YEATS
+</p>
+
+<p class="letter">
+<i>September</i> 1912.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2>GITANJALI</h2>
+
+<h2>1.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou
+emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast
+breathed through it melodies eternally new.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and
+gives birth to utterance ineffable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>2.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come
+before thy presence.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could
+never aspire to reach.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my
+lord.
+</p>
+
+<h2>3.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<h2>4.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living
+touch is upon all my limbs.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy
+power gives me strength to act.
+</p>
+
+<h2>5.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have in
+hand I will finish afterwards.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of
+life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
+</p>
+
+<h2>6.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop
+into the dust.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy
+service and pluck it while there is time.
+</p>
+
+<h2>7.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>8.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from the
+world, and is afraid even to move.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>9.</h2>
+
+<p>
+O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at
+thy own door!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look behind in
+regret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>10.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and
+lowliest, and lost.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble
+among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the
+companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.
+</p>
+
+<h2>11.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>12.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said “Here art thou!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<h2>13.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is
+the agony of wishing in my heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.
+</p>
+
+<h2>14.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>15.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes
+without a purpose.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight,
+command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my
+presence.
+</p>
+
+<h2>16.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I
+could.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and
+offer thee my silent salutation?
+</p>
+
+<h2>17.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their
+blame.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>18.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait
+outside at the door all alone?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing
+with the restless wind.
+</p>
+
+<h2>19.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down
+in golden streams breaking through the sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>20.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>21.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore—Alas for me!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of
+faded futile flowers I wait and linger.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow
+leaves flutter and fall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<h2>22.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent
+as night, eluding all watchers.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>23.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky
+groans like one in despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the
+darkness, my friend!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<h2>24.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>25.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle,
+resting my trust upon thee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>26.</h2>
+
+<p>
+He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O
+miserable me!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams
+became resonant with its melodies.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose
+breath touches my sleep?
+</p>
+
+<h2>27.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>28.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it
+in love.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>29.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>30.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the
+silent dark?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice
+to every word that I utter.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed to come
+to thy door in his company.
+</p>
+
+<h2>31.</h2>
+
+<p>
+“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“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.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+“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.”
+</p>
+
+<h2>32.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by
+after day and thou art not seen.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>33.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When it was day they came into my house and said, “We shall only take the
+smallest room here.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>34.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>35.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where knowledge is free;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where words come out from the depth of truth;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert
+sand of dead habit;
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
+</p>
+
+<h2>36.</h2>
+
+<p>
+This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in my
+heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent
+might.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
+</p>
+
+<h2>37.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>38.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>39.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one, thou
+wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.
+</p>
+
+<h2>40.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes of
+lightning startle the sky from end to end.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen
+and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the mother
+on the day of the father’s wrath.
+</p>
+
+<h2>41.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<h2>42.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell
+in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of
+sunset, vanish into the night?
+</p>
+
+<h2>43.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>44.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is
+filling with the perfume of promise.
+</p>
+
+<h2>45.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever
+comes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always
+proclaimed, “He comes, comes, ever comes.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes,
+ever comes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes,
+comes, ever comes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>46.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has
+come within my heart and called me in secret.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy
+is passing through my heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>47.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>48.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<h2>49.</h2>
+
+<p>
+You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You came
+down and stood at my cottage door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>50.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>51.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>52.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<h2>53.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>54.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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 <i>babla</i> flowers came from the bend of the road.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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, <i>neem</i> leaves
+rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.
+</p>
+
+<h2>55.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun—what if the
+burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst—
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<h2>56.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>57.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light,
+heart-sweetening light!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines
+surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters
+gems in profusion.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>58.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>59.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>60.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>61.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>62.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>63.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>64.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>65.</h2>
+
+<p>
+What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my
+life?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>66.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its
+eager arms in vain.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled
+alone and apart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in
+her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
+</p>
+
+<h2>67.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with
+colours and sounds and odours.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the
+wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>68.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>69.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through
+the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death,
+in ebb and in flow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>70.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them
+back, they rush on.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>71.</h2>
+
+<p>
+That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting
+coloured shadows on thy radiance—such is thy <i>maya</i>.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>72.</h2>
+
+<p>
+He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+He it is who weaves the web of this <i>maya</i> 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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>73.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a
+thousand bonds of delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and
+fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them
+before the altar of thy temple.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing
+and touch will bear thy delight.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires
+ripen into fruits of love.
+</p>
+
+<h2>74.</h2>
+
+<p>
+The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the
+stream to fill my pitcher.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>75.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee
+undiminished.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer
+itself to thee.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thy worship does not impoverish the world.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last
+meaning points to thee.
+</p>
+
+<h2>76.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand
+before thee face to face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among
+hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>77.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>78.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!”
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among
+themselves—“Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!”
+</p>
+
+<h2>79.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>80.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>81.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into
+blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>82.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to
+wait.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We
+are too poor to be late.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find
+that yet there is time.
+</p>
+
+<h2>83.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will
+hang upon thy breast.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>84.</h2>
+
+<p>
+It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth
+to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>85.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where had they hid
+their power? Where were their armour and their arms?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the
+day they came out from their master’s hall.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+When the warriors marched back again to their master’s hall where did they hide
+their power?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>86.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought
+thy call to my home.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>87.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find
+her not.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy
+door.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes
+to thy face.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>88.</h2>
+
+<p>
+Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of <i>Vina</i> sing no more your
+praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is
+still and silent about you.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a
+night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy
+stream of oblivion when their time is come.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless neglect.
+</p>
+
+<h2>89.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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!
+</p>
+
+<h2>90.</h2>
+
+<p>
+On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to him?
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life—I will never let him
+go with empty hands.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>91.</h2>
+
+<p>
+O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to me!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys and
+pangs of life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>92.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave like
+sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>93.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my
+departure.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>94.</h2>
+
+<p>
+At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is flushed
+with the dawn and my path lies beautiful.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty
+hands and expectant heart.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>95.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in
+the forest at midnight!
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>96.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is
+unsurpassable.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I caught
+sight of him that is formless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>97.</h2>
+
+<p>
+When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor shyness
+nor fear, my life was boisterous.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade and
+lead me running from glade to glade.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>98.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my power
+to escape unconquered.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>99.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light
+them I forget all else again and again.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>100.</h2>
+
+<p>
+I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect
+pearl of the formless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+And now I am eager to die into the deathless.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of
+toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>101.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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 they brought me in the evening at
+the end of my journey?
+</p>
+
+<h2>102.</h2>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<h2>103.</h2>
+
+<p>
+In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this
+world at thy feet.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+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.
+</p>
+
+</div><!--end chapter-->
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Gitanjali
+
+Author: Rabindranath Tagore
+
+Posting Date: September 5, 2011
+Release Date: December, 2004 [EBook #7164]
+[This file was first posted on March 18, 2003]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Originally scanned at sacred-texts.com by John
+B. Hare. This eBook was produced by Chetan Jain, Viswas
+G and Anand Rao at Bharat Literature
+
+
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+
+
+
+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.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore
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