Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

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, and the waves are raving at sea.

       We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out, my bride and I.

       We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from behind.

       My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings to my breast.

       Long have I served her tenderly.

       I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut out the rude light from her eyes.

       I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor.

       She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.

       She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.

       To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.

       My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and come out.

       Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her garland rustles over her breast.

       The push of death has swung her into life.

       We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.

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      She dwelt on the hillside by the edge of a maize-field, near the spring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadows of ancient trees.

       The women came there to fill their jars, and travellers would sit there to rest and talk.

       She worked and dreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream.

       One evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak; his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes.

       We asked in wonder,

       "Who are you?" He answered not but sat by the garrulous stream and silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt.

       Our hearts quaked in fear and we came back home when it was night.

       Next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring by the deodar trees, they found the doors open in her hut, but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face? The empty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out in the corner. No one knew where she had fled to before it was morning—and the stranger had gone. In the month of May the sun grew strong and the snow melted, and we sat by the spring and wept. We wondered in our mind, "Is there a spring in the land where she has gone and where she can fill her vessel in these hot thirsty days?" And we asked each other in dismay, "Is there a land beyond these hills where we live?" It was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and I sat in her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit. When suddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtains drawn aside. "Ah, it is she who comes. How are you, my child? Are you happy? But where can you shelter under this open sky? And, alas, our spring is not here to allay your thirst." "Here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencing hills,—this is the same stream grown into a river,—the same earth widened into a plain." "Everything is here," I sighed, "only we are not." She smiled sadly and said, "You are in my heart." I woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and the rustling of the deodars at night.

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      Over the green and yellow rice-fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds followed by the swift chasing sun.

       The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light they foolishly hover and hum.

       The ducks in the islands of the river clamour in joy for mere nothing.

       Let none go back home, brothers, this morning, let none go to work.

       Let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder space as we run.

       Laughter floats in the air like foam on the flood.

       Brothers, let us squander our morning in futile songs.

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