%format plain
% Gitanjali.tex
%
% Gitanjali or `song offerings' by Rabindranath Tagore (1861--1941),
% nobel prize for literature 1913, with an introduction by William B.
% Yeats (1865--1939), nobel prize for literature 1923. First published
% in 1913.
%
% This work is in public domain according to the Berne convention
% since January 1st 1992.
%
% Please report omissions and typos in this file to <jhelling@cs.ruu.nl>
% If you have other literary works in computer readable form, please
% also report it.
%
% History:
%   15-JUN-1992 last edit
%   11-JUN-1992 first version

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\centerline{\twelverm RABINDRANATH TAGORE}
\vskip2cm
\centerline{\bigrm GITANJALI}
\medskip
\centerline{\it Song Offerings}
\vskip1cm
\centerline{\sc A collection of prose translations}
\centerline{\sc made by the author from}
\centerline{\sc the original Bengali}
\vskip1cm
\centerline{\sevenit With an introduction by}
\medskip
\centerline{\twelverm W.\thinspace B. YEATS}
\vfill\eject

\vskip3.5cm
\centerline{\sc to}
\smallskip
\centerline{WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN}
\vfill\eject

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\s INTRODUCTION

{\sc 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.''\thinspace' 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.'

\s II

I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for 
days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in 
restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would 
see how much it moved me. These lyrics---which are in the original, my 
Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable 
delicacies of colour, of metrical invention---display in their thought 
a world I have dreamed of all my live long. The work of a supreme 
culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the 
grass and the rushes. A tradition, where poetry and religion are the 
same thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned 
and unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the 
multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. If the 
civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind
which---as one divines---runs through all, is not, as with us, broken 
into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of 
what is most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few 
generations, to the beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind 
in England, Chaucer wrote his {\it 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.

\s III

We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make 
writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we 
fight and make money and fill our heads with politics---all dull 
things in the doing---while Mr.~Tagore, like the Indian civilization 
itself, has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to 
its spontaneity. He often seems to contrast life with that of those 
who have loved more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in 
the world, and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is 
best for him: `Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with 
shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and 
when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them 
not.' At another time, remembering how his life had once a different 
shape, he will say, `Many an hour I have spent in the strife of the 
good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the 
empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why this sudden 
call to what useless inconsequence.' An innocence, a simplicity that 
one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the 
leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the 
changes of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen 
between them and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the 
literature of Bengal or from religion, and at other times, remembering 
the birds alighting on his brother's hands, I find pleasure in thinking 
it hereditary, a mystery that was growing through the centuries like 
the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking 
of children, so much a part of himself this quality seems, one is not 
certain that he is not also speaking of the saints, `They build their 
houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves 
they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. 
Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not how 
to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for 
pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles 
and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know 
not how to cast nets.'

\medskip\rightline{W.\thinspace B. YEATS}
\medskip\leftline{\it September 1912}
\vfill\eject

%%%%%%
\pageno=1 % set pagenumber

\p1

{\sc 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.

\p2

{\sc 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.

\p3

{\sc 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!

\p4

{\sc 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.

\p5

{\sc 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.

\p6

{\sc 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.

\p7

{\sc 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.

\p8

{\sc 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.

\p9

{\sc 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.

\p10

{\sc 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.

\p11

{\sc 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.

\p12

{\sc 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!'

\p13

{\sc 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.

\p14

{\sc 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.

\p15

{\sc 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.

\p16

{\sc 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?

\p17

{\sc 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.

\p18

{\sc 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.

\p19

{\sc 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.

\p20

{\sc 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.

\p21

{\sc 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?

\p22

{\sc 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.

\p23

{\sc 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?

\p24

{\sc 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.

\p25

{\sc 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.

\p26

{\sc 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?

\p27

{\sc 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.

\p28

{\sc 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.

\p29

{\sc 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.

\p30

{\sc 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.

\p31

{\sc `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-hose 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.'

\p32

{\sc 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.

\p33

{\sc 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.

\p34

{\sc 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.

\p35

{\sc 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.

\p36

{\sc 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.

\p37

{\sc 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.

\p38

{\sc 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'.

\p39

{\sc 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.

\p40

{\sc 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.

\p41

{\sc 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?

\p42

{\sc 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?

\p43

{\sc 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.

\p44

{\sc 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.

\p45

{\sc 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.

\p46

{\sc 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.

\p47

{\sc 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.

\p48

{\sc 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!

\p49

{\sc 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.

\p50

{\sc 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.

\p51

{\sc 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.

\p52

{\sc 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!

\p53

{\sc 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.

\p54

{\sc 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 {\it 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, {\it neem\/} leaves rustle overhead and I sit 
and think and think.

\p55

{\sc 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?

\p56

{\sc 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.

\p57

{\sc 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.

\p58

{\sc 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.

\p59

{\sc 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.

\p60

{\sc 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.

\p61

{\sc 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.

\p62

{\sc 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.

\p63

{\sc 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.

\p64

{\sc 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.

\p65

{\sc 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.

\p66

{\sc 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.

\p67

{\sc 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.

\p68

{\sc 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.

\p69

{\sc 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.

\p70

{\sc 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.

\p71

{\sc That} I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus 
casting coloured shadows on thy radiance---such is thy {\it 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.

\p72

{\sc 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 {\it 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.

\p73

{\sc 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.

\p74

{\sc 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.

\p75

{\sc 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.

\p76

{\sc 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.

\p77

{\sc 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.

\p78

{\sc 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!'

\p79

{\sc 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.

\p80

{\sc 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.

\p81

{\sc 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.

\p82

{\sc 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.

\p83

{\sc 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.

\p84

{\sc 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.

\p85

{\sc 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.

\p86

{\sc 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.

\p87

{\sc 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.

\p88

{\sc Deity} of the ruined temple! The broken strings of {\it 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.

\p89

{\sc 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!

\p90

{\sc 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.

\p91

{\sc 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.

\p92

{\sc 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.

\p93

{\sc 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.

\p94

{\sc 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.

\p95

{\sc 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.

\p96

{\sc 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.

\p97

{\sc 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.

\p98

{\sc 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.

\p99

{\sc 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.

\p100

{\sc 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.

\p101

{\sc 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?

\p102

{\sc 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.

\p103

{\sc 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.


\bye

