Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore

sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.

      I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute.

      Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished.

      The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet.

      The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee.

      Thy worship does not impoverish the world.

      From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee.

      Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face.

      Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face.

      In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face.

      And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.

      I know thee as my God and stand apart — I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet — I do not grasp thy hand as my friend’s.

      I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

      Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee.

      In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life.

      When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang ‘Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!’

      But one cried of a sudden — ‘It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.’

      The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay — ‘Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!’

      From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy!

      Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves — ‘Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!’

      If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me — let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

      If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

      And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.

      On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.

      Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

      I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

      Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes.

      Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait.

      Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

      We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a chances. We are too poor to be late.

      And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.

      At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find that yet there is time.

      Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow.

      The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast.

      Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.

      It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

      It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.

      It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet’s heart.

      When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms?

      They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master’s hall.

      When the warriors marched back again to their master’s hall where did they hide their power?

      They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master’s hall.

      Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home.

      The night is dark and my heart is fearful — yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door.

      I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.

      He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee.

      In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I find her not.

      My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

      But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to thy door.

      I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

      I