Title: Gitanjali
Author: Tagore, Rabindranath
Language: English
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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 the 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.





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