Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore

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      O mad, superbly drunk;

       If you kick open your doors and play the fool in public;

       If you empty your bag in a night, and snap your fingers at prudence;

       If you walk in curious paths and play with useless things;

       Reck not rhyme or reason;

       If unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in two,

       Then I will follow you, comrade, and be drunken and go to the dogs.

       I have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise neighbours.

       Much knowing has turned my hair grey, and much watching has made my sight dim.

       For years I have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of things;

       Crush them and dance upon them, and scatter them all to the winds.

       For I know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go to the dogs.

       Let all crooked scruples vanish, let me hopelessly lose my way.

       Let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my anchors.

       The world is peopled with worthies, and workers, useful and clever.

       There are men who are easily first, and men who come decently after.

       Let them be happy and prosper, and let me be foolishly futile.

       For I know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the dogs.

       I swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the decent.

       I let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong.

       I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering the last drop of tears.

       With the foam of the berry-red wine I will bathe and brighten my laughter.

       The badge of the civil and staid I'll tear into shreds for the nonce.

       I'll take the holy vow to be worthless, to be drunken and go to the dogs.

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      No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may say.

       I shall never be an ascetic if she does not take the vow with me.

       It is my firm resolve that if I cannot find a shady shelter and a companion for my penance, I shall never turn ascetic.

       No, my friends, I shall never leave my hearth and home, and retire into the forest solitude, if rings no merry laughter in its echoing shade and if the end of no saffron mantle flutters in the wind; if its silence is not deepened by soft whispers.

       I shall never be an ascetic.

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      Reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners.

       Spring winds to-day are blowing in wild eddies, driving dust and dead leaves away, and with them your lessons are all lost.

       Do not say, father, that life is a vanity.

       For we have made truce with death for once, and only for a few fragrant hours we two have been made immortal.

       Even if the king's army came and fiercely fell upon us we should sadly shake our heads and say, Brothers, you are disturbing us.

       If you must have this noisy game, go and clatter your arms elsewhere.

       Since only for a few fleeting moments we have been made immortal.

       If friendly people came and flocked around us, we should humbly bow to them and say, This extravagant good fortune is an embarrassment to us.

       Room is scarce in the infinite sky where we dwell.

       For in the springtime flowers come in crowds, and the busy wings of bees jostle each other.

       Our little heaven, where dwell only we two immortals, is too absurdly narrow.

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      To the guests that must go bid God's speed and brush away all traces of their steps.

       Take to your bosom with a smile what is easy and simple and near.

       To-day is the festival of phantoms that know not when they die.

       Let your laughter be but a meaningless mirth like twinkles of light on the ripples.

       Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.

       Strike in chords from your harp fitful momentary rhythms.

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      You left me and went on your way.

       I thought I should mourn for you and set your solitary image in my heart wrought in a golden song.

       But ah, my evil fortune, time is short.

       Youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; the frail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me that life is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf.

       Should I neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned her back on me?

       That would be rude and foolish, for time is short.

       Then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my golden autumn; come, careless April, scattering your kisses abroad.

       You come, and you, and you also!

       My loves, you know we are mortals.

       Is it wise to break one's heart for the one who takes her heart away? For time is short.

       It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that you are all my world.

       It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to be consoled.

       But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my eyes.

       I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song.

       For time is short.

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      If you would have it so, I will end my singing.

       If it sets your heart aflutter, I will take away my eyes from your face.

       If it suddenly startles you in your walk, I will step aside and take another path.

       If it confuses you in your flower-weaving, I will shun your lonely garden.

       If it makes the water wanton and wild, I will not row my boat by your bank.

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      Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! No more of this wine of kisses.

       This mist of heavy incense stifles my heart.