The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

      The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it already belonged to the past.

      The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the lane.

      Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,—for I love the look of this land.

      The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark water.

      Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the lane littered with leaves.

      The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums wearily.

      Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.

      Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a water-jar.

      4

      O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds—a secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.

      O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that doze in the sun.

      The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the cause of my tears.

      I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from me.

      5

      For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way; wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in mist.

      Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road, where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water heaves in the troubled sea.

      Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.

      6

      Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that metaphor, "Flowers are the footprints of summer."

      They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be erased by a passing breeze.

      Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.

      7

      I am like the night to you, little flower.

      I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.

      When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-hum with bees, and songful with birds.

      My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; it will make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on the pitiless mirth of day.

      8

      Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret. It is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red by passion.

      What gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust?

      I fear, if I accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by the loss of all I have.

      Do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame my destitute life.

      9

      If I were living in the royal town of Ujjain, when Kalidas was the king's poet, I should know some Malwa girl and fill my thoughts with the music of her name. She would glance at me through the slanting shadow of her eyelids, and allow her veil to catch in the jasmine as an excuse for lingering near me.

      This very thing happened in some past whose track is lost under time's dead leaves.

      The scholars fight to-day about dates that play hide-and-seek.

      I do not break my heart dreaming over flown and vanished ages: but alas and alas again, that those Malwa girls have followed them!

      To what heaven, I wonder, have they carried in their flower-baskets those days that tingled to the lyrics of the king's poet?

      This morning, separation from those whom I was born too late to meet weighs on and saddens my heart.

      Yet April carries the same flowers with which they decked their hair, and the same south breeze fluttered their veils as whispers over modern roses.

      And, to tell the truth, joys are not lacking to this spring, though Kalidas sing no more; and I know, if he can watch me from the Poets' Paradise, he has reasons to be envious.

      10

      Be not concerned about her heart, my heart: leave it in the dark.

      What if her beauty be of the figure and her smile merely of the face? Let me take without question the simple meaning of her glances and be happy.

      I care not if it be a web of delusion that her arms wind about me, for the web itself is rich and rare, and the deceit can be smiled at and forgotten.

      Be not concerned about her heart, my heart: be content if the music is true, though the words are not to be believed; enjoy the grace that dances like a lily on the rippling, deceiving surface, whatever may lie beneath.

      11

Neither mother nor daughter are you, nor bride, Urvashi.1 Woman you are, to ravish the soul of Paradise.

      When weary-footed evening comes down to the folds whither the cattle have returned, you never trim the house lamps nor walk to the bridal bed with a tremulous heart and a wavering smile on your lips, glad that the dark hours are so secret.

      Like the dawn you are without veil, Urvashi, and without shame.

      Who can imagine that aching overflow of splendour which created you!

      You rose from the churned ocean on the first day of the first spring, with the cup of life in your right hand and poison in your left. The monster sea, lulled like an enchanted snake, laid down its thousand hoods at your feet.

      Your unblemished radiance rose from the foam, white and naked as a jasmine.

      Were you ever small, timid or in bud, Urvashi, O Youth everlasting?

      Did you sleep, cradled in the deep blue night where the strange light of gems plays over coral, shells and moving creatures of dreamlike form, till day revealed your awful fulness of bloom?

      Adored are you of all men in all ages, Urvashi, O endless wonder!

      The world throbs with youthful pain at the glance of your eyes, the ascetic lays the fruit of his austerities at your feet, the songs of poets hum and swarm round the perfume of your presence. Your feet, as in careless joy they flit on, wound even the heart of the hollow wind with the tinkle of golden bells.

      When you dance before the gods, flinging orbits of novel rhythm into space, Urvashi, the earth shivers, leaf and grass, and autumn fields heave and sway; the sea surges into a frenzy of rhyming waves; the stars drop into the sky—beads from the chain that leaps till it breaks on your breast; and the blood dances in men's hearts with sudden turmoil.

      You are the first break on the crest of heaven's slumber, Urvashi, you thrill the air with unrest. The world bathes your limbs in her tears; with colour of her heart's blood are your feet red; lightly you poise on the wave-tossed lotus of desire, Urvashi; you play forever in that limitless mind wherein labours God's tumultuous dream.

      12

      You, like a rivulet swift and sinuous, laugh and dance, and your steps sing as you trip along.

      I, like a bank rugged and steep, stand speechless