The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of the south.

       I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what

       I do not seek.

       From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.

       The gleaming vision flits on.

       I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.

       I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

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      Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts.

       It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers in unfinished. This love between you and me is simple as a song. Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk. The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise. It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles. This love between you and me is simple as a song. No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark. This love between you and me is simple as a song. We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope. It is enough what we give and we get. We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain. This love between you and me is simple as a song.

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      The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness.

       We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of joy.

       Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden trees.

       If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms.

       The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our river.

       My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

       Only one field lies between us.

       Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.

       Flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the stream where we bathe.

       Baskets of dried kusm flowers come from their fields to our market. The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our river. My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan. The lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with mango flowers. When their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in our field. The stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling look. The rain that floods their tank makes glad our kadam forest. The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our river. My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

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      When the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot and they smile.

       They must be aware of somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

       The two sisters whisper to each other when they pass this spot.

       They must have guessed the secret of that somebody who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

       Their pitchers lurch suddenly, and water spills when they reach this spot.

       They must have found out that somebody's heart is beating who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

       The two sisters glance at each other when they come to this spot, and they smile.

       There is a laughter in their swift-stepping feet, which makes confusion in somebody's mind who stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

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      You walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your hip.

       Why did you swiftly turn your face and peep at me through your fluttering veil?

       That gleaming look from the dark came upon me like a breeze that sends a shiver through the rippling water and sweeps away to the shadowy shore.

       It came to me like the bird of the evening that hurriedly flies across the lampless room from the one open window to the other, and disappears in the night.

       You are hidden as a star behind the hills, and I am a passer-by upon the road.

       But why did you stop for a moment and glance at my face through your veil while you walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your hip?

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      Day after day he comes and goes away.

       Go, and give him a flower from my hair, my friend.

       If he asks who was it that sent it, I entreat you do not tell him my name—for he only comes and goes away.

       He sits on the dust under the tree.

       Spread there a seat with flowers and leaves, my friend.

       His eyes are sad, and they bring sadness to my heart.

       He does not speak what he has in mind; he only comes and goes away.

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      Why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when the day dawned?

       As I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are caught by his face.

       I know not if I should speak to him or keep silent. Why did he choose to come to my door?

       The cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind.

       He weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time.

       I turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist. Why did he choose to come to my door?

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      When she passed by me with quick steps, the end of her skirt touched me.

       From the unknown island of a heart came a sudden warm breath of spring.

       A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me and vanished in a moment, like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze.

       It fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body and whisper of her heart.

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      Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets in mere