Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore

stag.

       You may smile, my friends, but I pursue the vision that eludes me.

       I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands, because I am hunting for the golden stag.

       You come and buy in the market and go back to your homes laden with goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched me

       I know not when and where.

       I have no care in my heart; all my belongings I have left far behind me.

       I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands— because I am hunting for the golden stag.

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      I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in the ditch.

       It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play.

       I floated my paper boat in the ditch.

       Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and rain poured in torrents.

       Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my boat.

       Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.

       The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing over all those games in life wherein I was loser.

       I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when suddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.

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      The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the river-bank.

       I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny lost.

       But no, my brother, I have still something left.

       My fate has not cheated me of everything.

       The selling and buying are over.

       All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time for me to go home.

       But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll?

       Do not fear, I have still something left.

       My fate has not cheated me of everything.

       The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in the west bode no good.

       The hushed water waits for the wind.

       I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me.

       O ferryman, you want your fee!

       Yes, brother, I have still something left.

       My fate has not cheated me of everything.

       In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar.

       Alas, he looks at my face with a timid hope!

       He thinks I am rich with the day's profit.

       Yes, brother, I have still something left.

       My fate has not cheated me of everything.

       The night grows dark and the road lonely.

       Fireflies gleam among the leaves.

       Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps?

       Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains.

       I will not disappoint you!

       For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me of everything.

       At midnight I reach home.

       My hands are empty.

       You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and silent.

       Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love.

       Ay, ay, my God, much remains still.

       My fate has not cheated me of everything.

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      With days of hard travail I raised a temple.

       It had no doors or windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.

       I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.

       It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.

       The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.

       Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy bewildering lines—winged horses, flowers with human faces, women with limbs like serpents.

       No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.

       The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of incantations which I chanted.

       My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses swooned in ecstasy.

       I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

       The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would fain hide themselves.

       I looked at the image on the altar.

       I saw it smiling and alive with the living touch of God.

       The night I had imprisoned had spread its wings and vanished.

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      Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!

       You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.

       The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.

       The toys that you make for your children are fragile.

       You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you for that?

       Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.

       Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.

       From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality, that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.

       For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is not built, but only its sad suggestion.

       Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.

       I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your love.

       I will worship you with labour.

       I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,

       Mother Earth.

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      In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.

       Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with the music of the clouds and forests.

       But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple grandeur