The Complete Poetical Works of Rabindranath Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

open the inner door of the shrine, light the candle, and let us meet there in silence before our God.

XLIX

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      The pain was great when the strings were being tuned, my Master!

      Begin your music, and let me forget the pain; let me feel in beauty what you had in your mind through those pitiless days.

      The waning night lingers at my doors, let her take her leave in songs.

      Pour your heart into my life strings, my Master, in tunes that descend from your stars.

L

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      In the lightning flash of a moment I have seen the immensity of your creation in my life—creation through many a death from world to world.

      I weep at my unworthiness when I see my life in the hands of the unmeaning hours,—but when I see it in your hands I know it is too precious to be squandered among shadows.

LI

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      I know that at the dim end of some day the sun will bid me its farewell.

      Shepherds will play their pipes beneath the banyan trees, and cattle graze on the slope by the river, while my days will pass into the dark.

      This is my prayer, that I may know before I leave why the earth called me to her arms.

      Why her night's silence spoke to me of stars, and her daylight kissed my thoughts into flower.

      Before I go may I linger over my last refrain, completing its music, may the lamp be lit to see your face and the wreath woven to crown you.

LII

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      What music is that in whose measure the world is rocked?

      We laugh when it beats upon the crest of life, we shrink in terror when it returns into the dark.

      But the play is the same that comes and goes with the rhythm of the endless music.

      You hide your treasure in the palm of your hand, and we cry that we are robbed.

      But open and shut your palm as you will, the gain and the loss are the same.

      At the game you play with your own self you lose and win at once.

LIII

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      I have kissed this world with my eyes and my limbs; I have wrapt it within my heart in numberless folds; I have flooded its days and nights with thoughts till the world and my life have grown one,—and I love my life because I love the light of the sky so enwoven with me.

      If to leave this world be as real as to love it—then there must be a meaning in the meeting and the parting of life.

      If that love were deceived in death, then the canker of this deceit would eat into all things, and the stars would shrivel and grow black.

LIV

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      The Cloud said to me, "I vanish"; the Night said, "I plunge into the fiery dawn."

      The Pain said, "I remain in deep silence as his footprint."

      "I die into the fulness," said my life to me.

      The Earth said, "My lights kiss your thoughts every moment."

      "The days pass," Love said, "but I wait for you."

      Death said, "I ply the boat of your life across the sea."

LV

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      Tulsidas, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the

       Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead.

      He found a woman sitting at the feet of the corpse of her dead husband, gaily dressed as for a wedding.

      She rose as she saw him, bowed to him, and said, "Permit me,

       Master, with your blessing, to follow my husband to heaven."

      "Why such hurry, my daughter?" asked Tulsidas. "Is not this earth also His who made heaven?"

      "For heaven I do not long," said the woman. "I want my husband."

      Tulsidas smiled and said to her, "Go back to your home, my child.

       Before the month is over you will find your husband."

      The woman went back with glad hope. Tulsidas came to her every day and gave her high thoughts to think, till her heart was filled to the brim with divine love.

      When the month was scarcely over, her neighbours came to her, asking, "Woman, have you found your husband?"

      The widow smiled and said, "I have."

      Eagerly they asked, "Where is he?"

      "In my heart is my lord, one with me," said the woman.

LVI

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      You came for a moment to my side and touched me with the great mystery of the woman that there is in the heart of creation.

      She who is ever returning to God his own outflowing of sweetness; she is the ever fresh beauty and youth in nature; she dances in the bubbling streams and sings in the morning light; she with heaving waves suckles the thirsty earth; in her the Eternal One breaks in two in a joy that no longer may contain itself, and overflows in the pain of love.

LVII

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      Who is she who dwells in my heart, the woman forlorn for ever?

      I wooed her and I failed to win her. I decked her with wreaths and sang in her praise.

      A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.

      "I have no joy in thee," she cried, the woman in sorrow.

      I bought her jewelled anklets and fanned her with a fan gem-studded; I made her a bed on a bedstead of gold.

      There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.

      "I have no joy in these," she cried, the woman in sorrow.

      I seated her upon a car of triumph and drove her from end to end of the earth.

      Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.

      Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.

      "I have