Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore

of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the musing moon.

       The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.

       And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into dust.

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      At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:

       "This is the time to give up my home and seek for God.

       Ah, who has held me so long in delusion here?"

       God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.

       With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed.

       The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?"

       The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not.

       The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother.

       God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he heard not.

       God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?"

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      The fair was on before the temple.

       It had rained from the early morning and the day came to its end.

       Brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smile of a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf.

       The shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter and noise.

       An endless throng of people came and jostled together.

       The road was muddy, the river in flood, the field under water in ceaseless rain.

       Greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy's trouble—he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick.

       His wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting of men so pitiful.

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      The workman and his wife from the west country are busy digging to make bricks for the kiln.

       Their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river; there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots and pans.

       Her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud- covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on the high bank at her bidding.

       She goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, the shining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with her right—she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with the weight of the household cares.

       One day I saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched.

       In the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handful of earth, turning it round and round.

       Near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank.

       It came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud, and the child started up and screamed.

       His sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up.

       She took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, and dividing her caresses between them bound in one bond of affection the offspring of beast and man.

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      It was in May.

       The sultry noon seemed endlessly long.

       The dry earth gaped with thirst in the heat.

       When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, "Come, my darling!"

       I shut my book and opened the window to look out.

       I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in water, calling it to its bath.

       I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.

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      I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.

       Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran the simple path by which their hearts visited each other.

       Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though their kinship has been long forgotten.

       Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.

       It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each other through the disguise.

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      With a glance of your eyes you could plunder all the wealth of songs struck from poets' harps, fair woman!

       But for their praises you have no ear, therefore I come to praise you.

       You could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world.

       But it is your loved ones, unknown to fame, whom you choose to worship, therefore I worship you.

       The perfection of your arms would add glory to kingly splendour with their touch.

       But you use them to sweep away the dust, and to make clean your humble home, therefore I am filled with awe.

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      Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, O Death, my Death?

       When the flowers droop in the evening and cattle come back to their stalls, you stealthily come to my side and speak words that I do not understand.

       Is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsy murmur and cold kisses, O Death, my Death?

       Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding?

       Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks?

       Is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not the night be on fire with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death?

       Come with your conch-shells sounding, come in the sleepless night.

       Dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me.

       Let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighing impatiently.

       Raise my veil and look at my face proudly, O Death, my Death!

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      We are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.

       The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious,