The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening.

       No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.

       It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the courtyard; the sky overhead is bright.

       Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the door if you fear.

       No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.

       Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when you meet him.

       If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your eyes in silence.

       Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him in.

       Have no word with him if you are shy.

       Have you not finished your work yet, bride? Listen, the guest has come.

       Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?

       Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening service?

       Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the night?

       O bride, do you hear, the guest has come?

       Let your work be!

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      Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

       If your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do not mind.

       Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

       Come, with quick steps over the grass.

       If the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of your chain, do not mind.

       Come with quick steps over the grass.

       Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

       Flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful gusts of wind rush over the heath.

       The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.

       Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

       In vain you light your toilet lamp—it flickers and goes out in the wind.

       Who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lamp- black? For your eyes are darker than rain-clouds.

       In vain you light your toilet lamp—it goes out.

       Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

       If the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not been linked, let it be.

       The sky is overcast with clouds—it is late.

       Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

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      If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my lake.

       The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.

       The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows.

       I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my heart.

       Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.

       If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float on the water, come, O come to my lake.

       The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.

       Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from their nests.

       Your veil will drop to your feet.

       Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.

       If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O come to my lake.

       Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover you and hide you.

       The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in your ears.

       Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.

       If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my lake.

       It is cool and fathomlessly deep.

       It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.

       There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are silence.

       Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.

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      I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree.

       Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the air.

       The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth.

       Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands, tender and fresh as butter.

       And I was standing still.

       I did not say a word. It was the bird that sang unseen from the thicket.

       The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road, and the bees came humming one by one.

       On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was opened and the worshipper had begun his chants. With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow. I stood with my empty can. I did not come near you. The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple. The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle. With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the river. Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar. The morning wore on and I did not come near you.

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      I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.

       The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light.

       The koels were weary of their songs. I was walking by the road, I do not know why. The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging tree. Some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in the corner. I stood before this hut, I know not why. The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a mango forest. It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the river landing place. I stopped by this hut, I do not know why. Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the dust. The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood on the landing step. I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why. Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds. The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are waiting for the ferry at the bank. I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

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      I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.