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diff --git a/7164-h/7164-h.htm b/7164-h/7164-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bbaa254 --- /dev/null +++ b/7164-h/7164-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3169 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore</title> +<link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<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--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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