The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word.

      Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs.

      With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring it with hues everchanging.

      It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows.

      The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

      It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

      It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.

      I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

      Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?

      All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can hold them back, they rush on.

      Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away — colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.

      That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance — such is thy maya.

      Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me.

      The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self.

      This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness.

      The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me.

      He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.

      He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.

      He it is who weaves the web of this maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself.

      Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.

      Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

      Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.

      My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple.

      No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight.

      Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love.

      The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher.

      The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.

      I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute.

      Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished.

      The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet.

      The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is to offer itself to thee.

      Thy worship does not impoverish the world.

      From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet their last meaning points to thee.

      Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face.

      Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face.

      In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face.

      And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.

      I know thee as my God and stand apart — I do not know thee as my own and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet — I do not grasp thy hand as my friend’s.

      I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

      Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee.

      In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life.

      When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang ‘Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!’

      But one cried of a sudden — ‘It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.’

      The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay — ‘Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens!’

      From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy!

      Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among themselves — ‘Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!’

      If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me — let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house — let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

      I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

      If