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 sons
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.'
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.
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
G
I T A N J A L I
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 keeps one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth,
if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common
human life.
* * * * * *
*
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 bad that was for my lord, and on
waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own treasure-house.'
`Prisoner, tell me, who was it that
wrought this unbreakable chain?'
`It was I,' said the prisoner, `who
forged this chain very carefully. I thought my invincible power would
hold the world captive leaving me in a freedom undisturbed. Thus night
and day I worked at the chain with huge fires and cruel hard strokes.
When at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable,
I found that it held me in its grip.'
* * * * * *
*
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 pave more and more as
the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves
cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot
air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of
the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by the water and stretched
my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn;
they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back
nor rested; they vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many
meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries.
All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and
reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself
up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation---in the shadow of
a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green
gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled,
and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows
and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber
and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with
thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome,
and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
* * * * * * *
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
spread itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, `Woman,
what hast thou got?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of
perfumed water---it is thy dreadful sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift
is this of thine. I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to
wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom.
Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this
gift of thine.
From now there shall be no fear left
for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife.
Thou hast left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my
life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall
be no fear left for me in the world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations.
Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping
in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast
given me thy sword for adornment. No more 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 where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest
dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment.
From there it comes to kiss 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.
* * * * * * * *
* * * * * *