Gitanjali & Fruit-Gathering. Rabindranath Tagore

growled from the corner of the sky, and the woman trembled in fear.

      ……

      The branches of the wayside trees were aching with blossom.

      Gay notes of the flute came floating in the warm spring air from afar.

      The citizens had gone to the woods, to the festival of flowers.

      From the mid-sky gazed the full moon on the shadows of the silent town.

      The young ascetic was walking in the lonely street, while overhead the lovesick koels urged from the mango branches their sleepless plaint.

      Upagupta passed through the city gates, and stood at the base of the rampart.

      What woman lay in the shadow of the wall at his feet, struck with the black pestilence, her body spotted with sores, hurriedly driven away from the town?

      The ascetic sat by her side, taking her head on his knees, and moistened her lips with water and smeared her body with balm.

      "Who are you, merciful one?" asked the woman.

      "The time, at last, has come to visit you, and I am here," replied the young ascetic.

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      This is no mere dallying of love between us, my lover.

      Again and again have swooped down upon me the screaming nights of storm, blowing out my lamp: dark doubts have gathered, blotting out all stars from my sky.

      Again and again the banks have burst, letting the flood sweep away my harvest, and wailing and despair have rent my sky from end to end.

      This have I learnt that there are blows of pain in your love, never the cold apathy of death.

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      The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, bursts in.

       Victory, O Light!

      The heart of the night is pierced!

      With your flashing sword cut in twain the tangle of doubt and feeble desires!

      Victory!

      Come, Implacable!

      Come, you who are terrible in your whiteness.

      O Light, your drum sounds in the march of fire, and the red torch is held on high; death dies in a burst of splendour!

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      O fire, my brother, I sing victory to you.

      You are the bright red image of fearful freedom.

      You swing your arms in the sky, you sweep your impetuous fingers across the harp-string, your dance music is beautiful.

      When my days are ended and the gates are opened you will burn to ashes this cordage of hands and feet.

      My body will be one with you, my heart will be caught in the whirls of your frenzy, and the burning heat that was my life will flash up and mingle itself in your flame.

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      The Boatman is out crossing the wild sea at night.

      The mast is aching because of its full sails filled with the violent wind.

      Stung with the night's fang the sky falls upon the sea, poisoned with black fear.

      The waves dash their heads against the dark unseen, and the

       Boatman is out crossing the wild sea.

      The Boatman is out, I know not for what tryst, startling the night with the sudden white of his sails.

      I know not at what shore, at last, he lands to reach the silent courtyard where the lamp is burning and to find her who sits in the dust and waits.

      What is the quest that makes his boat care not for storm nor darkness?

      Is it heavy with gems and pearls?

      Ah, no, the Boatman brings with him no treasure, but only a white rose in his hand and a song on his lips.

      It is for her who watches alone at night with her lamp burning.

      She dwells in the wayside hut. Her loose hair flies in the wind and hides her eyes.

      The storm shrieks through her broken doors, the light flickers in her earthen lamp flinging shadows on the walls.

      Through the howl of the winds she hears him call her name, she whose name is unknown.

      It is long since the Boatman sailed. It will be long before the day breaks and he knocks at the door.

      The drums will not be beaten and none will know.

      Only light shall fill the house, blessed shall be the dust, and the heart glad.

      All doubts shall vanish in silence when the Boatman comes to the shore.

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      I cling to this living raft, my body, in the narrow stream of my earthly years.

      I leave it when the crossing is over. And then?

      I do not know if the light there and the darkness are the same.

      The Unknown is the perpetual freedom:

      He is pitiless in his love.

      He crushes the shell for the pearl, dumb in the prison of the dark.

      You muse and weep for the days that are done, poor heart!

      Be glad that days are to come!

      The hour strikes, O pilgrim!

      It is time for you to take the parting of the ways!

      His face will be unveiled once again and you shall meet.

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      Over the relic of Lord Buddha King Bimbisâr built a shrine, a salutation in white marble.

      There in the evening would come all the brides and daughters of the King's house to offer flowers and light lamps.

      When the son became king in his time he washed his father's creed away with blood, and lit sacrificial fires with its sacred books.

      The autumn day was dying. The evening hour of worship was near.

      Shrimati, the queen's maid, devoted to Lord Buddha, having bathed in holy water, and decked the golden tray with lamps and fresh white blossoms, silently raised her dark eyes to the queen's face.

      The queen shuddered in fear and said, "Do you not know, foolish girl, that death is the penalty for whoever brings worship to Buddha's shrine?

      "Such is the king's will."

      Shrimati bowed to the queen, and turning away from her door came and stood before Amitâ,