ANIMAL FORUM

The Gitanjali or `song offerings by Rabindranath Tagore (1861--1941), Nobel
prize for literature 1913, with an introduction by William B. Yeats
(1865--1939), Nobel prize for literature 1923. First published in 1913. The
introduction by William B. Yeats is at the end of this document.

This work is in public domain according to the Berne convention since 1st
January 1992.

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RABINDRANATH TAGORE

GITANJALI

Song Offerings

A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original
Bengali.
With an introduction by W. B. YEATS to WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN

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GITANJALI

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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I ask for a moments 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
live in this silent and overflowing leisure.

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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.

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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 poets 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.

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The child who is decked with princes 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 keeps 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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I have had my invitation to this worlds 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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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?

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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 moments 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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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`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 bad 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.

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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.

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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 Gods altar.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 fathers wrath.

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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?

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 pave
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!

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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.

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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 days 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.

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The night darkened. Our days 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 kings 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.

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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 spread 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 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 dolls decorations
for me!

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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.

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I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou tookst
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.

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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?

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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.

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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
heavens river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad.

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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.

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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.

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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 babys 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.

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The sleep that flits on babys eyes---does anybody know from where it comes?
Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village
among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds
of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss babys eyes.

The smile that flickers on babys 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 babys lips
when he sleeps.

The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on babys 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 babys limbs.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 friends.

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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 poets heart.

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When the warriors came out first from their masters 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 masters hall.

When the warriors marched back again to their masters 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 masters hall.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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No more noisy, loud words from me---such is my masters will. Henceforth I deal
in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the Kings 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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 hear