Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

lightning's flash slender and keen, pierce the heart of the turbulent darkness, to disappear in a vivid streak of laughter.

      13

      You desired my love and yet you did not love me.

      Therefore my life clings to you like a chain of which clank and grip grow harsher the more you struggle to be free.

      My despair has become your deadly companion, clutching at the faintest of your favours, trying to drag you away into the cavern of tears.

      You have shattered my freedom, and with its wreck built your own prison.

      14

      I am glad you will not wait for me with that lingering pity in your look.

      It is only the spell of the night and my farewell words, startled at their own tune of despair, which bring these tears to my eyes. But day will dawn, my eyes will dry and my heart; and there will be no time for weeping.

      Who says it is hard to forget?

      The mercy of death works at life's core, bringing it respite from its own foolish persistence.

      The stormy sea is lulled at last in its rocking cradle; the forest fire falls to sleep on its bed of ashes.

      You and I shall part, and the cleavage will be hidden under living grass and flowers that laugh in the sun.

      15

      Of all days you have chosen this one to visit my garden.

      But the storm passed over my roses last night and the grass is strewn with torn leaves.

      I do not know what has brought you, now that the hedges are laid low and rills run in the walks; the prodigal wealth of spring is scattered and the scent and song of yesterday are wrecked.

      Yet stay a while; let me find some remnant flowers, though I doubt if your skirt can be filled.

      The time will be short, for the clouds thicken and here comes the rain again!

      16

      I forgot myself for a moment, and I came.

      But raise your eyes, and let me know if there still linger some shadow of other days, like a pale cloud on the horizon that has been robbed of its rain.

      For a moment bear with me if I forget myself.

      The roses are still in bud; they do not yet know how we neglect to gather flowers this summer.

      The morning star has the same palpitating hush; the early light is enmeshed in the branches that overbrow your window, as in those other days.

      That times are changed I forget for a little, and have come.

      I forget if you ever shamed me by looking away when I bared my heart.

      I only remember the words that stranded on the tremor of your lips; I remember in your dark eyes sweeping shadows of passion, like the wings of a home-seeking bird in the dusk.

      I forget that you do not remember, and I come.

      17

      The rain fell fast. The river rushed and hissed. It licked up and swallowed the island, while I waited alone on the lessening bank with my sheaves of corn in a heap.

      From the shadows of the opposite shore the boat crosses with a woman at the helm.

      I cry to her, "Come to my island coiled round with hungry water, and take away my year's harvest."

      She comes, and takes all that I have to the last grain; I ask her to take me.

      But she says, "No"—the boat is laden with my gift and no room is left for me.

      18

      The evening beckons, and I would fain follow the travellers who sailed in the last ferry of the ebb-tide to cross the dark.

      Some were for home, some for the farther shore, yet all have ventured to sail.

      But I sit alone at the landing, having left my home and missed the boat: summer is gone and my winter harvest is lost.

      I wait for that love which gathers failures to sow them in tears on the dark, that they may bear fruit when day rises anew.

      19

      On this side of the water there is no landing; the girls do not come here to fetch water; the land along its edge is shaggy with stunted shrubs; a noisy flock of saliks dig their nests in the steep bank under whose frown the fisher-boats find no shelter.

      You sit there on the unfrequented grass, and the morning wears on. Tell me what you do on this bank so dry that it is agape with cracks?

      She looks in my face and says, "Nothing, nothing whatsoever."

      On this side of the river the bank is deserted, and no cattle come to water. Only some stray goats from the village browse the scanty grass all day, and the solitary water-hawk watches from an uprooted peepal aslant over the mud.

      You sit there alone in the miserly shade of a shimool, and the morning wears on.

      Tell me, for whom do you wait?

      She looks in my face and says, "No one, no one at all!"

KACHA AND DEVAYANI

       Table of Contents

       Young Kacha came from Paradise to learn the secret of immortality from a Sage who taught the Titans, and whose daughter Devayani fell in love with him.

      KACHA. The time has come for me to take leave, Devayani; I have long sat at your father's feet, but to-day he completed his teaching. Graciously allow me to go back to the land of the Gods whence I came.

      DEVAYANI. You have, as you desired, won that rare knowledge coveted by the Gods;—but think, do you aspire after nothing further?

      KACHA. Nothing.

      DEVAYANI. Nothing at all! Dive into the bottom of your heart; does no timid wish lurk there, fearful lest it be blighted?

      KACHA. For me the sun of fulfilment has risen, and the stars have faded in its light. I have mastered the knowledge which gives life.

      DEVAYANI. Then you must be the one happy being in creation. Alas! now for the first time I feel what torture these days spent in an alien land have been to you, though we offered you our best.

      KACHA. Not so much bitterness! Smile, and give me leave to go.

      DEVAYANI. Smile! But, my friend, this is not your native Paradise. Smiles are not so cheap in this world, where thirst, like a worm in the flower, gnaws at the heart's core; where baffled desire hovers round the desired, and memory never ceases to sigh foolishly after vanished joy.

      KACHA. Devayani, tell me how I have offended?

      DEVAYANI. Is it so easy for you to leave this forest, which through long years has lavished on you shade and song? Do you not feel how the wind wails through these glimmering shadows, and dry leaves whirl in the air, like ghosts of lost hope;—while you alone, who part from us, have a smile on your lips?

      KACHA. This forest has been a second mother to me, for here I have been born again. My love for it shall never dwindle.

      DEVAYANI. When you had driven the cattle to graze on the lawn, yonder banyan tree spread a hospitable shade for your tired limbs against the mid-day heat.

      KACHA. I bow to thee, Lord of the Forest! Remember me, when under thy shade other students chant their lessons to an accompaniment of bees humming and leaves rustling.

      DEVAYANI. And do not forget our Venumati, whose swift water is one stream of singing love.

      KACHA. I shall ever remember her, the dear companion of my exile, who, like a