Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

are coloured bubbles

       that float upon the surface of fathomless night.

      My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance,

       and therefore you may remember them.

      Leave out my name from the gift

       if it be a burden,

       but keep my song.

      April, like a child,

       writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers,

       wipes them away and forgets.

      Memory, the priestess,

       kills the present

       and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

      From the solemn gloom of the temple

       children run out to sit in the dust,

       God watches them play

       and forgets the priest.

      My mind starts up at some flash

       on the flow of its thoughts

       like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own

       that is never repeated.

      In the mountain, stillness surges up

       to explore its own height;

       in the lake, movement stands still

       to contemplate its own depth.

      The departing night's one kiss

       on the closed eyes of morning

       glows in the star of dawn.

      Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruit

       which is yet to mature,

       tense with an unyielding secret.

      Sorrow that has lost its memory

       is like the dumb dark hours

       that have no bird songs

       but only the cricket's chirp.

      Bigotry tries to keep truth safe in its hand

       with a grip that kills it.

      Wishing to hearten a timid lamp

       great night lights all her stars.

      Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride,

       the sky is ever immensely away.

      God seeks comrades and claims love,

       the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.

      The soil in return for her service

       keeps the tree tied to her,

       the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.

      Jewel-like immortal

       does not boast of its length of years

       but of the scintillating point of its moment.

      The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time,

       unobscured by the dust of history.

      A light laughter in the steps of creation

       carries it swiftly across time.

      One who was distant came near to me in the morning,

       and still nearer when taken away by night.

      White and pink oleanders meet

       and make merry in different dialects.

      When peace is active sweeping its dirt, it is storm.

      The lake lies low by the hill,

       a tearful entreaty of love

       at the foot of the inflexible.

      There smiles the Divine Child

       among his playthings of unmeaning clouds

       and ephemeral lights and shadows.

      The breeze whispers to the lotus,

       "What is thy secret?"

       "It is myself," says the lotus,

       "Steal it and I disappear!"

      The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem

       join hands in the dance of swaying branches.

      The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers.

      The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom

       and yet to keep it for himself.

      Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man.

      Clouds are hills in vapour,

       hills are clouds in stone, —

       a phantasy in time's dream.

      While God waits for His temple to be built of love,

       men bring stones.

      I touch God in my song

       as the hill touches the far-away sea

       with its waterfall.

      Light finds her treasure of colours

       through the antagonism of clouds.

      My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears

       like a wet tree glistening in the sun

       after the rain is over.

      I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitful,

       but have failed to remember the grass

       that has ever kept it green.

      The one without second is emptiness,

       the other one makes it true.

      Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty

       that can modulate their isolation

       into a harmony with the whole.

      They expect thanks for the banished nest

       because their cage is shapely and secure.

      In love I pay my endless debt to thee

       for what thou art.

      The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,

       and the sun says, they are good.

      Your calumny against the great is impious,

       it hurts yourself;

       against the small it is mean,

       for it hurts the victim.

      The first flower that blossomed on this earth

       was an invitation to the unborn song.

      Dawn—the many-coloured flower—fades,

       and then the simple light-fruit,

       the sun appears.

      The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdom

       throttles the voice that would cry.

      The wind tries to take the flame by storm

       only to blow it out.

      Life's play is swift,

       Life's playthings fall behind one by one

       and are forgotten.

      My flower, seek not thy paradise

       in a fool's buttonhole.

      Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon,

       but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.

      Darkness is the veiled bride

       silently waiting for the errant light

       to return to her bosom.

      Trees are the earth's endless effort to

       speak to the listening heaven.

      The burden of self is lightened