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diff --git a/7164-0.txt b/7164-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..154535a --- /dev/null +++ b/7164-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2704 @@ +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 *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +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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