Rabindranath Tagore's GITANJALI

GITANJALI

BY: RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Thou hast made me endless, such is thy

pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest

again and again, and fillest it ever with

fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried

over hills and dales, and hast breathed

through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little

heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth

to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these

very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and

still thou pourest, and still there is room to

fill.

When thou commandest me to sing it

seems that my heart would break with

pride; and I look to thy face, and tears

come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life

melts into one sweet harmony--and my

adoration spreads wings like a glad bird

on its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing.

I know that only as a singer I come before

thy presence.

I touch by the edge of the far-spreading

wing of my song thy feet which I could

never aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forget

myself and call thee friend who art my

lord.

I know not how thou singest, my master! I

ever listen in silent amazement.

The light of thy music illumines the world.

The life breath of thy music runs from sky

to sky. The holy stream of thy music

breaks through all stony obstacles and

rushes on.

My heart longs to join in thy song, but

vainly struggles for a voice. I would

speak, but speech breaks not into song,

and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made

my heart captive in the endless meshes of

thy music, my master!

Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my

body pure, knowing that thy living touch is

upon all my limbs.

I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from

my thoughts, knowing that thou art that

truth which has kindled the light of reason

in my mind.

I shall ever try to drive all evils away from

my heart and keep my love in flower,

knowing that thou hast thy seat in the

inmost shrine of my heart.

And it shall be my endeavour to reveal

thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power

gives me strength to act.

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by

thy side. The works that I have in hand I

will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart

knows no rest nor respite, and my work

becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea

of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window

with its sighs and murmurs; and the bees

are plying their minstrelsy at the court of

the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with

thee, and to sing dedication of live in this

silent and overflowing leisure.

Pluck this little flower and take it, delay

not! I fear lest it droop and drop into the

dust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, but

honour it with a touch of pain from thy

hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end

before I am aware, and the time of offering

go by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smell

be faint, use this flower in thy service and

pluck it while there is time.

My song has put off her adornments. She

has no pride of dress and decoration.

Ornaments would mar our union; they

would come between thee and me; their

jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet's vanity dies in shame before thy

sight. O master poet, I have sat down at

thy feet. Only let me make my life simple

and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to

fill with music.

The child who is decked with prince's

robes and who has jewelled chains round

his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his

dress hampers him at every step.

In fear that it may be frayed, or stained

with dust he keeps himself from the world,

and is afraid even to move.

Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of

finery, if it keep one shut off from the

healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of

the right of entrance to the great fair of

common human life.

O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own

shoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thy

own door!

Leave all thy burdens on his hands who

can bear all, and never look behind in

regret.

Thy desire at once puts out the light from

the lamp it touches with its breath. It is

unholy--take not thy gifts through its

unclean hands. Accept only what is

offered by sacred love.

Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet

where live the poorest, and lowliest, and

lost.

When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance

cannot reach down to the depth where thy

feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest,

and lost.

Pride can never approach to where thou

walkest in the clothes of the humble

among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

My heart can never find its way to where

thou keepest company with the

companionless among the poorest, the

lowliest, and the lost.

Leave this chanting and singing and telling

of beads! Whom dost thou worship in this

lonely dark corner of a temple with doors

all shut? Open thine eyes and see thy God

is not before thee!

He is there where the tiller is tilling the

hard ground and where the pathmaker is

breaking stones. He is with them in sun

and in shower, and his garment is covered

with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even

like him come down on the dusty soil!

Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to

be found? Our master himself has joyfully

taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is

bound with us all for ever.

Come out of thy meditations and leave

aside thy flowers and incense! What harm

is there if thy clothes become tattered and

stained? Meet him and stand by him in toil

and in sweat of thy brow.

The time that my journey takes is long and

the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam

of light, and pursued my voyage through

the wildernesses of worlds leaving my

track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes

nearest to thyself, and that training is the

most intricate which leads to the utter

simplicity of a tune.

The traveller has to knock at every alien

door to come to his own, and one has to

wander through all the outer worlds to

reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut

them and said 'Here art thou!'

The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' melt

into tears of a thousand streams and

deluge the world with the flood of the

assurance 'I am!'

The song that I came to sing remains

unsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and in

unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the words

have not been rightly set; only there is the

agony of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened; only the

wind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face, nor have I listened

to his voice; only I have heard his gentle

footsteps from the road before my house.

The livelong day has passed in spreading

his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not

been lit and I cannot ask him into my

house.

I live in the hope of meeting with him; but

this meeting is not yet.

My desires are many and my cry is pitiful,

but ever didst thou save me by hard

refusals; and this strong mercy has been

wrought into my life through and through.

Day by day thou art making me worthy of

the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to

me unasked--this sky and the light, this

body and the life and the mind--saving me

from perils of overmuch desire.

There are times when I languidly linger

and times when I awaken and hurry in

search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest

thyself from before me.

Day by day thou art making me worthy of

thy full acceptance by refusing me ever

and anon, saving me from perils of weak,

uncertain desire.

I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of

thine I have a corner seat.

In thy world I have no work to do; my

useless life can only break out in tunes

without a purpose.

When the hour strikes for thy silent

worship at the dark temple of midnight,

command me, my master, to stand before

thee to sing.

When in the morning air the golden harp is

tuned, honour me, commanding my

presence.

I have had my invitation to this world's

festival, and thus my life has been blessed.

My eyes have seen and my ears have

heard.

It was my part at this feast to play upon my

instrument, and I have done all I could.

Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I

may go in and see thy face and offer thee

my silent salutation?

I am only waiting for love to give myself up

at last into his hands. That is why it is so

late and why I have been guilty of such

omissions.

They come with their laws and their codes

to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I

am only waiting for love to give myself up

at last into his hands.

People blame me and call me heedless; I

doubt not they are right in their blame.

The market day is over and work is all

done for the busy. Those who came to call

me in vain have gone back in anger. I am

only waiting for love to give myself up at

last into his hands.

Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens.

Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside

at the door all alone?

In the busy moments of the noontide work I

am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely

day it is only for thee that I hope.

If thou showest me not thy face, if thou

leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I

am to pass these long, rainy hours.

I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the

sky, and my heart wanders wailing with

the restless wind.

If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with

thy silence and endure it. I will keep still

and wait like the night with starry vigil and

its head bent low with patience.

The morning will surely come, the

darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour

down in golden streams breaking through

the sky.

Then thy words will take wing in songs

from every one of my birds' nests, and thy

melodies will break forth in flowers in all

my forest groves.

On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas,

my mind was straying, and I knew it not.

My basket was empty and the flower

remained unheeded.

Only now and again a sadness fell upon

me, and I started up from my dream and

felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in

the south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart ache

with longing and it seemed to me that is

was the eager breath of the summer

seeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it

was mine, and that this perfect sweetness

had blossomed in the depth of my own

heart.

I must launch out my boat. The languid

hours pass by on the shore--Alas for me!

The spring has done its flowering and

taken leave. And now with the burden of

faded futile flowers I wait and linger.

The waves have become clamorous, and

upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow

leaves flutter and fall.

What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do

you not feel a thrill passing through the air

with the notes of the far-away song floating

from the other shore?

In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with

secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night,

eluding all watchers.

Today the morning has closed its eyes,

heedless of the insistent calls of the loud

east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn

over the ever-wakeful blue sky.

The woodlands have hushed their songs,

and doors are all shut at every house.

Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this

deserted street. Oh my only friend, my

best beloved, the gates are open in my

house--do not pass by like a dream.

Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy

journey of love, my friend? The sky

groans like one in despair.

I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I

open my door and look out on the

darkness, my friend!

I can see nothing before me. I wonder

where lies thy path!

By what dim shore of the ink-black river,

by what far edge of the frowning forest,

through what mazy depth of gloom art thou

threading thy course to come to me, my

friend?

If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if

the wind has flagged tired, then draw the

veil of darkness thick upon me, even as

thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet

of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of

the drooping lotus at dusk.

From the traveller, whose sack of

provisions is empty before the voyage is

ended, whose garment is torn and

dustladen, whose strength is exhausted,

remove shame and poverty, and renew his

life like a flower under the cover of thy

kindly night.

In the night of weariness let me give

myself up to sleep without struggle,

resting my trust upon thee.

Let me not force my flagging spirit into a

poor preparation for thy worship.

It is thou who drawest the veil of night

upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its

sight in a fresher gladness of awakening.

He came and sat by my side but I woke

not. What a cursed sleep it was, O

miserable me!

He came when the night was still; he had

his harp in his hands, and my dreams

became resonant with its melodies.

Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah,

why do I ever miss his sight whose breath

touches my sleep?

Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with

the burning fire of desire!

There is the lamp but never a flicker of a

flame--is such thy fate, my heart? Ah,

death were better by far for thee!

Misery knocks at thy door, and her

message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he

calls thee to the love-tryst through the

darkness of night.

The sky is overcast with clouds and the

rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is

that stirs in me--I know not its meaning.

A moment's flash of lightning drags down a

deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart

gropes for the path to where the music of

the night calls me.

Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with

the burning fire of desire! It thunders and

the wind rushes screaming through the

void. The night is black as a black stone.

Let not the hours pass by in the dark.

Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.

Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart

aches when I try to break them.

Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I

feel ashamed.

I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee,

and that thou art my best friend, but I have

not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that

fills my room

The shroud that covers me is a shroud of

dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.

My debts are large, my failures great, my

shame secret and heavy; yet when I come

to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my

prayer be granted.

He whom I enclose with my name is

weeping in this dungeon. I am ever busy

building this wall all around; and as this

wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose

sight of my true being in its dark shadow.

I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster

it with dust and sand lest a least hole

should be left in this name; and for all the

care I take I lose sight of my true being.

I came out alone on my way to my tryst.

But who is this that follows me in the silent

dark?

I move aside to avoid his presence but I

escape him not.

He makes the dust rise from the earth with

his swagger; he adds his loud voice to

every word that I utter.

He is my own little self, my lord, he knows

no shame; but I am ashamed to come to thy

door in his company.

'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound

you?'

'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'I

thought I could outdo everybody in the

world in wealth and power, and I amassed

in my own treasure-house the money due

to my king. When sleep overcame me I

lay upon the bed that was for my lord, and

on waking up I found I was a prisoner in

my own treasure-house.'

'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought

this unbreakable chain?'

'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged this

chain very carefully. I thought my

invincible power would hold the world

captive leaving me in a freedom

undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked

at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard

strokes. When at last the work was done

and the links were complete and

unbreakable, I found that it held me in its

grip.'

By all means they try to hold me secure

who love me in this world. But it is

otherwise with thy love which is greater

than theirs, and thou keepest me free.

Lest I forget them they never venture to

leave me alone. But day passes by after

day and thou art not seen.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not

thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits

for my love.

When it was day they came into my house

and said, 'We shall only take the smallest

room here.'

They said, 'We shall help you in the

worship of your God and humbly accept

only our own share in his grace'; and then

they took their seat in a corner and they sat

quiet and meek.

But in the darkness of night I find they

break into my sacred shrine, strong and

turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed

the offerings from God's altar.

Let only that little be left of me whereby I

may name thee my all.

Let only that little be left of my will

whereby I may feel thee on every side,

and come to thee in everything, and offer

to thee my love every moment.

Let only that little be left of me whereby I

may never hide thee.

Let only that little of my fetters be left

whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy

purpose is carried out in my life--and that

is the fetter of thy love.

Where the mind is without fear and the

head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of

truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms

towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not

lost its way into the dreary desert sand of

dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into

ever-widening thought and action--

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let

my country awake.

This is my prayer to thee, my lord--strike,

strike at the root of penury in my heart.

Give me the strength lightly to bear my

joys and sorrows.

Give me the strength to make my love

fruitful in service.

Give me the strength never to disown the

poor or bend my knees before insolent

might.

Give me the strength to raise my mind

high above daily trifles.

And give me the strength to surrender my

strength to thy will with love.

I thought that my voyage had come to its

end at the last limit of my power,--that the

path before me was closed, that provisions

were exhausted and the time come to take

shelter in a silent obscurity.

But I find that thy will knows no end in me.

And when old words die out on the tongue,

new melodies break forth from the heart;

and where the old tracks are lost, new

country is revealed with its wonders.

That I want thee, only thee--let my heart

repeat without end. All desires that distract

me, day and night, are false and empty to

the core.

As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the

petition for light, even thus in the depth of

my unconsciousness rings the cry--'I want

thee, only thee'.

As the storm still seeks its end in peace

when it strikes against peace with all its

might, even thus my rebellion strikes

against thy love and still its cry is--'I want

thee, only thee'.

When the heart is hard and parched up,

come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a

burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all

sides shutting me out from beyond, come

to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace

and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched,

shut up in a corner, break open the door,

my king, and come with the ceremony of a

king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion

and dust, O thou holy one, thou wakeful,

come with thy light and thy thunder.

The rain has held back for days and days,

my God, in my arid heart. The horizon is

fiercely naked--not the thinnest cover of a

soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant

cool shower.

Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it

is thy wish, and with lashes of lightning

startle the sky from end to end.

But call back, my lord, call back this

pervading silent heat, still and keen and

cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.

Let the cloud of grace bend low from

above like the tearful look of the mother on

the day of the father's wrath.

Where dost thou stand behind them all, my

lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They

push thee and pass thee by on the dusty

road, taking thee for naught. I wait here

weary hours spreading my offerings for

thee, while passers-by come and take my

flowers, one by one, and my basket is

nearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the noon. In

the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy

with sleep. Men going home glance at me

and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like

a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my

face, and when they ask me, what it is I

want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.

Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for

thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to

come. How could I utter for shame that I

keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug

this pride in the secret of my heart.

I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky

and dream of the sudden splendour of thy

coming--all the lights ablaze, golden

pennons flying over thy car, and they at

the roadside standing agape, when they

see thee come down from thy seat to raise

me from the dust, and set at thy side this

ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame

and pride, like a creeper in a summer

breeze.

But time glides on and still no sound of the

wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession

passes by with noise and shouts and

glamour of glory. Is it only thou who

wouldst stand in the shadow silent and

behind them all? And only I who would

wait and weep and wear out my heart in

vain longing?

Early in the day it was whispered that we

should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and

never a soul in the world would know of

this our pilgrimage to no country and to no

end.

In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently

listening smile my songs would swell in

melodies, free as waves, free from all

bondage of words.

Is the time not come yet? Are there works

still to do? Lo, the evening has come down

upon the shore and in the fading light the

seabirds come flying to their nests.

Who knows when the chains will be off,

and the boat, like the last glimmer of

sunset, vanish into the night?

The day was when I did not keep myself in

readiness for thee; and entering my heart

unbidden even as one of the common

crowd, unknown to me, my king, thou

didst press the signet of eternity upon

many a fleeting moment of my life.

And today when by chance I light upon

them and see thy signature, I find they

have lain scattered in the dust mixed with

the memory of joys and sorrows of my

trivial days forgotten.

Thou didst not turn in contempt from my

childish play among dust, and the steps

that I heard in my playroom are the same

that are echoing from star to star.

This is my delight, thus to wait and watch

at the wayside where shadow chases light

and the rain comes in the wake of the

summer.

Messengers, with tidings from unknown

skies, greet me and speed along the road.

My heart is glad within, and the breath of

the passing breeze is sweet.

From dawn till dusk I sit here before my

door, and I know that of a sudden the

happy moment will arrive when I shall see.

In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all

alone. In the meanwhile the air is filling

with the perfume of promise.

Have you not heard his silent steps? He

comes, comes, ever comes.

Every moment and every age, every day

and every night he comes, comes, ever

comes.

Many a song have I sung in many a mood

of mind, but all their notes have always

proclaimed, 'He comes, comes, ever

comes.'

In the fragrant days of sunny April through

the forest path he comes, comes, ever

comes.

In the rainy gloom of July nights on the

thundering chariot of clouds he comes,

comes, ever comes.

In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that

press upon my heart, and it is the golden

touch of his feet that makes my joy to

shine.

I know not from what distant time thou art

ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun

and stars can never keep thee hidden from

me for aye.

In many a morning and eve thy footsteps

have been heard and thy messenger has

come within my heart and called me in

secret.

I know not only why today my life is all

astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is

passing through my heart.

It is as if the time were come to wind up my

work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of

thy sweet presence.

The night is nearly spent waiting for him in

vain. I fear lest in the morning he

suddenly come to my door when I have

fallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends,

leave the way open to him-- forbid him not.

If the sounds of his steps does not wake

me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish

not to be called from my sleep by the

clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of

wind at the festival of morning light. Let

me sleep undisturbed even if my lord

comes of a sudden to my door.

Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only

waits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my

closed eyes that would open their lids only

to the light of his smile when he stands

before me like a dream emerging from

darkness of sleep.

Let him appear before my sight as the first

of all lights and all forms. The first thrill of

joy to my awakened soul let it come from

his glance. And let my return to myself be

immediate return to him.

The morning sea of silence broke into

ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were

all merry by the roadside; and the wealth

of gold was scattered through the rift of the

clouds while we busily went on our way

and paid no heed.

We sang no glad songs nor played; we

went not to the village for barter; we spoke

not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on

the way. We quickened our pace more

and more as the time sped by.

The sun rose to the mid sky and doves

cooed in the shade. Withered leaves

danced and whirled in the hot air of noon.

The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed

in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid

myself down by the water and stretched

my tired limbs on the grass.

My companions laughed at me in scorn;

they held their heads high and hurried on;

they never looked back nor rested; they

vanished in the distant blue haze. They

crossed many meadows and hills, and

passed through strange, far-away

countries. All honour to you, heroic host of

the interminable path! Mockery and

reproach pricked me to rise, but found no

response in me. I gave myself up for lost

in the depth of a glad humiliation--in the

shadow of a dim delight.

The repose of the sun-embroidered green

gloom slowly spread over my heart. I

forgot for what I had travelled, and I

surrendered my mind without struggle to

the maze of shadows and songs.

At last, when I woke from my slumber and

opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by

me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How

I had feared that the path was long and

wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee

was hard!

You came down from your throne and

stood at my cottage door.

I was singing all alone in a corner, and the

melody caught your ear. You came down

and stood at my cottage door.

Masters are many in your hall, and songs

are sung there at all hours. But the simple

carol of this novice struck at your love.

One plaintive little strain mingled with the

great music of the world, and with a flower

for a prize you came down and stopped at

my cottage door.

I had gone a-begging from door to door in

the village path, when thy golden chariot

appeared in the distance like a gorgeous

dream and I wondered who was this King

of all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought my

evil days were at an end, and I stood

waiting for alms to be given unasked and

for wealth scattered on all sides in the

dust.

The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy

glance fell on me and thou camest down

with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life

had come at last. Then of a sudden thou

didst hold out thy right hand and say 'What

hast thou to give to me?'

Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy

palm to a beggar to beg! I was confused

and stood undecided, and then from my

wallet I slowly took out the least little grain

of corn and gave it to thee.

But how great my surprise when at the

day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to

find a least little gram of gold among the

poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that

I had had the heart to give thee my all.

The night darkened. Our day's works had

been done. We thought that the last guest

had arrived for the night and the doors in

the village were all shut. Only some said

the king was to come. We laughed and

said 'No, it cannot be!'

It seemed there were knocks at the door

and we said it was nothing but the wind.

We put out the lamps and lay down to

sleep. Only some said, 'It is the

messenger!' We laughed and said 'No, it

must be the wind!'

There came a sound in the dead of the

night. We sleepily thought it was the

distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls

rocked, and it troubled us in our sleep.

Only some said it was the sound of wheels.

We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must

be the rumbling of clouds!'

The night was still dark when the drum

sounded. The voice came 'Wake up!

delay not!' We pressed our hands on our

hearts and shuddered with fear. Some

said, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stood

up on our feet and cried 'There is no time

for delay!'

The king has come--but where are lights,

where are wreaths? Where is the throne to

seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame!

Where is the hall, the decorations?

Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greet

him with empty hands, lead him into thy

rooms all bare!'

Open the doors, let the conch-shells be

sounded! in the depth of the night has

come the king of our dark, dreary house.

The thunder roars in the sky. The

darkness shudders with lightning. Bring

out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it

in the courtyard. With the storm has come

of a sudden our king of the fearful night.

I thought I should ask of thee--but I dared

not--the rose wreath thou hadst on thy

neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when

thou didst depart, to find a few fragments

on the bed. And like a beggar I searched

in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of

thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase

of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword,

flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of

thunder. The young light of morning

comes through the window and spreads

itself upon thy bed. The morning bird

twitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thou

got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor

vase of perfumed water--it is thy dreadful

sword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of

thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am

ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it

hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet

shall I bear in my heart this honour of the

burden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for me

in this world, and thou shalt be victorious

in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my

companion and I shall crown him with my

life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder

my bonds, and there shall be no fear left

for me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty decorations.

Lord of my heart, no more shall there be

for me waiting and weeping in corners, no

more coyness and sweetness of

demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword

for adornment. No more doll's decorations

for me!

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars

and cunningly wrought in myriad-coloured

jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword

with its curve of lightning like the

outspread wings of the divine bird of

Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red

light of the sunset.

It quivers like the one last response of life

in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of

death; it shines like the pure flame of

being burning up earthly sense with one

fierce flash.

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry

gems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, is

wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to

behold or think of.

I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my

name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy

leave I stood silent. I was alone by the

well where the shadow of the tree fell

aslant, and the women had gone home

with their brown earthen pitchers full to

the brim. They called me and shouted,

'Come with us, the morning is wearing on

to noon.' But I languidly lingered awhile

lost in the midst of vague musings.

I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine

eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy

voice was tired as thou spokest low--'Ah, I

am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my

day-dreams and poured water from my jar

on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled

overhead; the cuckoo sang from the

unseen dark, and perfume of _babla_

flowers came from the bend of the road.

I stood speechless with shame when my

name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I

done for thee to keep me in

remembrance? But the memory that I

could give water to thee to allay thy thirst

will cling to my heart and enfold it in

sweetness. The morning hour is late, the

bird sings in weary notes, _neem_ leaves

rustle overhead and I sit and think and

think.

Languor is upon your heart and the

slumber is still on your eyes.

Has not the word come to you that the

flower is reigning in splendour among

thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time

pass in vain!

At the end of the stony path, in the country

of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all

alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh

awaken!

What if the sky pants and trembles with the

heat of the midday sun--what if the burning

sand spreads its mantle of thirst--

Is there no joy in the deep of your heart?

At every footfall of yours, will not the harp

of the road break out in sweet music of

pain?

Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus

it is that thou hast come down to me. O

thou lord of all heavens, where would be

thy love if I were not?

Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all

this wealth. In my heart is the endless play

of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever

taking shape.

And for this, thou who art the King of kings

hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate

my heart. And for this thy love loses itself

in the love of thy lover, and there art thou

seen in the perfect union of two.

Light, my light, the world-filling light, the

eye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!

Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the

centre of my life; the light strikes, my

darling, the chords of my love; the sky

opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes

over the earth.

The butterflies spread their sails on the sea

of light. Lilies and jasmines surge up on

the crest of the waves of light.

The light is shattered into gold on every

cloud, my darling, and it scatters gems in

profusion.

Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,

and gladness without measure. The

heaven's river has drowned its banks and

the flood of joy is abroad.

Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last

song--the joy that makes the earth flow

over in the riotous excess of the grass, the

joy that sets the twin brothers, life and

death, dancing over the wide world, the

joy that sweeps in with the tempest,

shaking and waking all life with laughter,

the joy that sits still with its tears on the

open red lotus of pain, and the joy that

throws everything it has upon the dust, and

knows not a word.

Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O

beloved of my heart-- this golden light that

dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds

sailing across the sky, this passing breeze

leaving its coolness upon my forehead.

The morning light has flooded my

eyes--this is thy message to my heart. Thy

face is bent from above, thy eyes look

down on my eyes, and my heart has

touched thy feet.

On the seashore of endless worlds

children meet. The infinite sky is

motionless overhead and the restless

water is boisterous. On the seashore of

endless worlds the children meet with

shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand and they

play with empty shells. With withered

leaves they weave their boats and

smilingly float them on the vast deep.

Children have their play on the seashore

of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not

how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for

pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while

children gather pebbles and scatter them

again. they seek not for hidden treasures,

they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter and pale

gleams the smile of the sea beach.

Death-dealing waves sing meaningless

ballads to the children, even like a mother

while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea

plays with children, and pale gleams the

smile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds

children meet. Tempest roams in the

pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the

trackless water, death is abroad and

children play. On the seashore of endless

worlds is the great meeting of children.

The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does

anybody know from where it comes? Yes,

there is a rumour that it has its dwelling

there, in the fairy village among shadows

of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms,

there hang two timid buds of enchantment.

From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes.

The smile that flickers on baby's lips when

he sleeps--does anybody know where it

was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a

young pale beam of a crescent moon

touched the edge of a vanishing autumn

cloud, and there the smile was first born in

the dream of a dew-washed morning--the

smile that flickers on baby's lips when he

sleeps.

The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on

baby's limbs--does anybody know where

it was hidden so long? Yes, when the

mother was a young girl it lay pervading

her heart in tender and silent mystery of

love--the sweet, soft freshness that has

bloomed on baby's limbs.

When I bring to you coloured toys, my

child, I understand why there is such a

play of colours on clouds, on water, and

why flowers are painted in tints--when I

give coloured toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance I truly now

why there is music in leaves, and why

waves send their chorus of voices to the

heart of the listening earth--when I sing to

make you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy

hands I know why there is honey in the cup

of the flowers and why fruits are secretly

filled with sweet juice--when I bring sweet

things to your greedy hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile,

my darling, I surely understand what

pleasure streams from the sky in morning

light, and what delight that is that is which

the summer breeze brings to my

body--when I kiss you to make you smile.

Thou hast made me known to friends

whom I knew not. Thou hast given me

seats in homes not my own. Thou hast

brought the distant near and made a

brother of the stranger.

I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave

my accustomed shelter; I forget that there

abides the old in the new, and that there

also thou abidest.

Through birth and death, in this world or in

others, wherever thou leadest me it is

thou, the same, the one companion of my

endless life who ever linkest my heart with

bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.

When one knows thee, then alien there is

none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me

my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of

the touch of the one in the play of many.

On the slope of the desolate river among

tall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where do

you go shading your lamp with your

mantle? My house is all dark and

lonesome--lend me your light!' she raised

her dark eyes for a moment and looked at

my face through the dusk. 'I have come to

the river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the

stream when the daylight wanes in the

west.' I stood alone among tall grasses and

watched the timid flame of her lamp

uselessly drifting in the tide.

In the silence of gathering night I asked

her, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit--then

where do you go with your lamp? My

house is all dark and lonesome--lend me

your light.' She raised her dark eyes on

my face and stood for a moment doubtful.

'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicate

my lamp to the sky.' I stood and watched

her light uselessly burning in the void.

In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask

her, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holding

the lamp near your heart? My house is all

dark and lonesome--lend me your light.'

She stopped for a minute and thought and

gazed at my face in the dark. 'I have

brought my light,' she said, 'to join the

carnival of lamps.' I stood and watched

her little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

What divine drink wouldst thou have, my

God, from this overflowing cup of my life?

My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation

through my eyes and to stand at the portals

of my ears silently to listen to thine own

eternal harmony?

Thy world is weaving words in my mind

and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou

givest thyself to me in love and then feelest

thine own entire sweetness in me.

She who ever had remained in the depth of

my being, in the twilight of gleams and of

glimpses; she who never opened her veils

in the morning light, will be my last gift to

thee, my God, folded in my final song.

Words have wooed yet failed to win her;

persuasion has stretched to her its eager

arms in vain.

I have roamed from country to country

keeping her in the core of my heart, and

around her have risen and fallen the

growth and decay of my life.

Over my thoughts and actions, my

slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet

dwelled alone and apart.

Many a man knocked at my door and

asked for her and turned away in despair.

There was none in the world who ever saw

her face to face, and she remained in her

loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as

well.

O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy

love that encloses the soul with colours

and sounds and odours.

There comes the morning with the golden

basket in her right hand bearing the

wreath of beauty, silently to crown the

earth.

And there comes the evening over the

lonely meadows deserted by herds,

through trackless paths, carrying cool

draughts of peace in her golden pitcher

from the western ocean of rest.

But there, where spreads the infinite sky

for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the

stainless white radiance. There is no day

nor night, nor form nor colour, and never,

never a word.

Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of

mine with arms outstretched and stands at

my door the livelong day to carry back to

thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs

and songs.

With fond delight thou wrappest about thy

starry breast that mantle of misty cloud,

turning it into numberless shapes and folds

and colouring it with hues everchanging.

It is so light and so fleeting, tender and

tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it,

O thou spotless and serene. And that is

why it may cover thy awful white light with

its pathetic shadows.

The same stream of life that runs through

my veins night and day runs through the

world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through

the dust of the earth in numberless blades

of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves

of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the

ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb

and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the

touch of this world of life. And my pride is

from the life-throb of ages dancing in my

blood this moment.

Is it beyond thee to be glad with the

gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and

lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful

joy?

All things rush on, they stop not, they look

not behind, no power can hold them back,

they rush on.

Keeping steps with that restless, rapid

music, seasons come dancing and pass

away--colours, tunes, and perfumes pour

in endless cascades in the abounding joy

that scatters and gives up and dies every

moment.

That I should make much of myself and

turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured

shadows on thy radiance--such is thy

_maya_.

Thou settest a barrier in thine own being

and then callest thy severed self in myriad

notes. This thy self-separation has taken

body in me.

The poignant song is echoed through all

the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles,

alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink

again, dreams break and form. In me is

thy own defeat of self.

This screen that thou hast raised is painted

with innumerable figures with the brush of

the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is

woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,

casting away all barren lines of

straightness.

The great pageant of thee and me has

overspread the sky. With the tune of thee

and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages

pass with the hiding and seeking of thee

and me.

He it is, the innermost one, who awakens

my being with his deep hidden touches.

He it is who puts his enchantment upon

these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords

of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure

and pain.

He it is who weaves the web of this _maya_

in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue

and green, and lets peep out through the

folds his feet, at whose touch I forget

myself.

Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he

who moves my heart in many a name, in

many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and

of sorrow.

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I

feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand

bonds of delight.

Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught

of thy wine of various colours and

fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the

brim.

My world will light its hundred different

lamps with thy flame and place them

before the altar of thy temple.

No, I will never shut the doors of my

senses. The delights of sight and hearing

and touch will bear thy delight.

Yes, all my illusions will burn into

illumination of joy, and all my desires

ripen into fruits of love.

The day is no more, the shadow is upon the

earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill

my pitcher.

The evening air is eager with the sad

music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into

the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no

passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are

rampant in the river.

I know not if I shall come back home. I

know not whom I shall chance to meet.

There at the fording in the little boat the

unknown man plays upon his lute.

Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs

and yet run back to thee undiminished.

The river has its everyday work to do and

hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its

incessant stream winds towards the

washing of thy feet.

The flower sweetens the air with its

perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself

to thee.

Thy worship does not impoverish the

world.

From the words of the poet men take what

meanings please them; yet their last

meaning points to thee.

Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I

stand before thee face to face. With folded

hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand

before thee face to face.

Under thy great sky in solitude and

silence, with humble heart shall I stand

before thee face to face.

In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous

with toil and with struggle, among

hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee

face to face.

And when my work shall be done in this

world, O King of kings, alone and

speechless shall I stand before thee face to

face.

I know thee as my God and stand apart--I

do not know thee as my own and come

closer. I know thee as my father and bow

before thy feet--I do not grasp thy hand as

my friend's.

I stand not where thou comest down and

ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee

to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers,

but I heed them not, I divide not my

earnings with them, thus sharing my all

with thee.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the

side of men, and thus stand by thee. I

shrink to give up my life, and thus do not

plunge into the great waters of life.

When the creation was new and all the

stars shone in their first splendour, the

gods held their assembly in the sky and

sang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy

unalloyed!'

But one cried of a sudden--'It seems that

somewhere there is a break in the chain of

light and one of the stars has been lost.'

The golden string of their harp snapped,

their song stopped, and they cried in

dismay--'Yes, that lost star was the best,

she was the glory of all heavens!'

From that day the search is unceasing for

her, and the cry goes on from one to the

other that in her the world has lost its one

joy!

Only in the deepest silence of night the

stars smile and whisper among

themselves--'Vain is this seeking!

unbroken perfection is over all!'

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this

life then let me ever feel that I have missed

thy sight--let me not forget for a moment,

let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my

dreams and in my wakeful hours.

As my days pass in the crowded market of

this world and my hands grow full with the

daily profits, let me ever feel that I have

gained nothing--let me not forget for a

moment, let me carry the pangs of this

sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful

hours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired and

panting, when I spread my bed low in the

dust, let me ever feel that the long journey

is still before me--let me not forget a

moment, let me carry the pangs of this

sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful

hours.

When my rooms have been decked out

and the flutes sound and the laughter there

is loud, let me ever feel that I have not

invited thee to my house--let me not forget

for a moment, let me carry the pangs of

this sorrow in my dreams and in my

wakeful hours.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn

uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun

ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet

melted my vapour, making me one with

thy light, and thus I count months and

years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play,

then take this fleeting emptiness of mine,

paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float

it on the wanton wind and spread it in

varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end

this play at night, I shall melt and vanish

away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of

the white morning, in a coolness of purity

transparent.

On many an idle day have I grieved over

lost time. But it is never lost, my lord.

Thou hast taken every moment of my life in

thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art

nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into

blossoms, and ripening flowers into

fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed

and imagined all work had ceased. In the

morning I woke up and found my garden

full with wonders of flowers.

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.

There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and

fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to

wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting

a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having no

time we must scramble for a chances. We

are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give

it to every querulous man who claims it,

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to

the last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest

thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there

is time.

Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for

thy neck with my tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought their anklets of

light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang

upon thy breast.

Wealth and fame come from thee and it is

for thee to give or to withhold them. But

this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and

when I bring it to thee as my offering thou

rewardest me with thy grace.

It is the pang of separation that spreads

throughout the world and gives birth to

shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in

silence all nights from star to star and

becomes lyric among rustling leaves in

rainy darkness of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepens

into loves and desires, into sufferings and

joy in human homes; and this it is that ever

melts and flows in songs through my poet's

heart.

When the warriors came out first from their

master's hall, where had they hid their

power? Where were their armour and

their arms?

They looked poor and helpless, and the

arrows were showered upon them on the

day they came out from their master's hall.

When the warriors marched back again to

their master's hall where did they hide

their power?

They had dropped the sword and dropped

the bow and the arrow; peace was on their

foreheads, and they had left the fruits of

their life behind them on the day they

marched back again to their master's hall.

Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has

crossed the unknown sea and brought thy

call to my home.

The night is dark and my heart is

fearful--yet I will take up the lamp, open

my gates and bow to him my welcome. It

is thy messenger who stands at my door.

I will worship him placing at his feet the

treasure of my heart.

He will go back with his errand done,

leaving a dark shadow on my morning;

and in my desolate home only my forlorn

self will remain as my last offering to thee.

In desperate hope I go and search for her

in all the corners of my room; I find her

not.

My house is small and what once has gone

from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and

seeking her I have to come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine

evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy

face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from

which nothing can vanish--no hope, no

happiness, no vision of a face seen through

tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,

plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me

for once feel that lost sweet touch in the

allness of the universe.

Deity of the ruined temple! The broken

strings of _Vina_ sing no more your praise.

The bells in the evening proclaim not your

time of worship. The air is still and silent

about you.

In your desolate dwelling comes the

vagrant spring breeze. It brings the

tidings of flowers--the flowers that for your

worship are offered no more.

Your worshipper of old wanders ever

longing for favour still refused. In the

eventide, when fires and shadows mingle

with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes

back to the ruined temple with hunger in

his heart.

Many a festival day comes to you in

silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many

a night of worship goes away with lamp

unlit.

Many new images are built by masters of

cunning art and carried to the holy stream

of oblivion when their time is come.

Only the deity of the ruined temple

remains unworshipped in deathless

neglect.

No more noisy, loud words from me--such

is my master's will. Henceforth I deal in

whispers. The speech of my heart will be

carried on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the King's market. All the

buyers and sellers are there. But I have

my untimely leave in the middle of the

day, in the thick of work.

Let then the flowers come out in my

garden, though it is not their time; and let

the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

Full many an hour have I spent in the strife

of the good and the evil, but now it is the

pleasure of my playmate of the empty days

to draw my heart on to him; and I know not

why is this sudden call to what useless

inconsequence!

On the day when death will knock at thy

door what wilt thou offer to him?

Oh, I will set before my guest the full

vessel of my life--I will never let him go

with empty hands.

All the sweet vintage of all my autumn

days and summer nights, all the earnings

and gleanings of my busy life will I place

before him at the close of my days when

death will knock at my door.

O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my

death, come and whisper to me!

Day after day I have kept watch for thee;

for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of

life.

All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all

my love have ever flowed towards thee in

depth of secrecy. One final glance from

thine eyes and my life will be ever thine

own.

The flowers have been woven and the

garland is ready for the bridegroom. After

the wedding the bride shall leave her

home and meet her lord alone in the

solitude of night.

I know that the day will come when my

sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will

take its leave in silence, drawing the last

curtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night, and morning

rise as before, and hours heave like sea

waves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments,

the barrier of the moments breaks and I

see by the light of death thy world with its

careless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat,

rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain and things

that I got--let them pass. Let me but truly

possess the things that I ever spurned and

overlooked.

I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my

brothers! I bow to you all and take my

departure.

Here I give back the keys of my door--and

I give up all claims to my house. I only ask

for last kind words from you.

We were neighbours for long, but I

received more than I could give. Now the

day has dawned and the lamp that lit my

dark corner is out. A summons has come

and I am ready for my journey.

At this time of my parting, wish me good

luck, my friends! The sky is flushed with

the dawn and my path lies beautiful.

Ask not what I have with me to take there.

I start on my journey with empty hands and

expectant heart.

I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is

not the red-brown dress of the traveller,

and though there are dangers on the way I

have no fear in mind.

The evening star will come out when my

voyage is done and the plaintive notes of

the twilight melodies be struck up from the

King's gateway.

I was not aware of the moment when I first

crossed the threshold of this life.

What was the power that made me open

out into this vast mystery like a bud in the

forest at midnight!

When in the morning I looked upon the

light I felt in a moment that I was no

stranger in this world, that the inscrutable

without name and form had taken me in its

arms in the form of my own mother.

Even so, in death the same unknown will

appear as ever known to me. And

because I love this life, I know I shall love

death as well.

The child cries out when from the right

breast the mother takes it away, in the very

next moment to find in the left one its

consolation.

When I go from hence let this be my

parting word, that what I have seen is

unsurpassable.

I have tasted of the hidden honey of this

lotus that expands on the ocean of light,

and thus am I blessed--let this be my

parting word.

In this playhouse of infinite forms I have

had my play and here have I caught sight

of him that is formless.

My whole body and my limbs have thrilled

with his touch who is beyond touch; and if

the end comes here, let it come--let this be

my parting word.

When my play was with thee I never

questioned who thou wert. I knew nor

shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.

In the early morning thou wouldst call me

from my sleep like my own comrade and

lead me running from glade to glade.

On those days I never cared to know the

meaning of songs thou sangest to me.

Only my voice took up the tunes, and my

heart danced in their cadence.

Now, when the playtime is over, what is

this sudden sight that is come upon me?

The world with eyes bent upon thy feet

stands in awe with all its silent stars.

I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of

my defeat. It is never in my power to

escape unconquered.

I surely know my pride will go to the wall,

my life will burst its bonds in exceeding

pain, and my empty heart will sob out in

music like a hollow reed, and the stone will

melt in tears.

I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus

will not remain closed for ever and the

secret recess of its honey will be bared.

From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon

me and summon me in silence. Nothing

will be left for me, nothing whatever, and

utter death shall I receive at thy feet.

When I give up the helm I know that the

time has come for thee to take it. What

there is to do will be instantly done. Vain

is this struggle.

Then take away your hands and silently

put up with your defeat, my heart, and

think it your good fortune to sit perfectly

still where you are placed.

These my lamps are blown out at every

little puff of wind, and trying to light them I

forget all else again and again.

But I shall be wise this time and wait in the

dark, spreading my mat on the floor; and

whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come

silently and take thy seat here.

I dive down into the depth of the ocean of

forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of

the formless.

No more sailing from harbour to harbour

with this my weather- beaten boat. The

days are long passed when my sport was

to be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into the

deathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomless

abyss where swells up the music of

toneless strings I shall take this harp of my

life.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and

when it has sobbed out its last utterance,

lay down my silent harp at the feet of the

silent.

Ever in my life have I sought thee with my

songs. It was they who led me from door

to door, and with them have I felt about

me, searching and touching my world.

It was my songs that taught me all the

lessons I ever learnt; they showed me

secret paths, they brought before my sight

many a star on the horizon of my heart.

They guided me all the day long to the

mysteries of the country of pleasure and

pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have

the brought me in the evening at the end of

my journey?

I boasted among men that I had known

you. They see your pictures in all works of

mine. They come and ask me, 'Who is he?'

I know not how to answer them. I say,

'Indeed, I cannot tell.' They blame me and

they go away in scorn. And you sit there

smiling.

I put my tales of you into lasting songs.

The secret gushes out from my heart. They

come and ask me, 'Tell me all your

meanings.' I know not how to answer

them. I say, 'Ah, who knows what they

mean!' They smile and go away in utter

scorn. And you sit there smiling.

In one salutation to thee, my God, let all

my senses spread out and touch this world

at thy feet.

Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its

burden of unshed showers let all my mind

bend down at thy door in one salutation to

thee.

Let all my songs gather together their

diverse strains into a single current and

flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to

thee.

Like a flock of homesick cranes flying

night and day back to their mountain nests

let all my life take its voyage to its eternal

home in one salutation to thee.