Gitanjali. Rabindranath Tagore

melt into tears of a thousand streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance ‘I am!’

      The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

      I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.

      The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.

      The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.

      I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.

      The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.

      I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

      My desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me by hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through.

      Day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked — this sky and the light, this body and the life and the mind — saving me from perils of overmuch desire.

      There are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and hurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me.

      Day by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire.

      I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner seat.

      In thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose.

      When the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing.

      When in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding my presence.

      I have had my invitation to this world’s festival, and thus my life has been blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard.

      It was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have done all I could.

      Now, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation?

      I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands. That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions.

      They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands.

      People blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in their blame.

      The market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands.

      Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone?

      In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.

      If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours.

      I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind.

      If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience.

      The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.

      Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds’ nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

      On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.

      Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.

      That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.

      I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.

      I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore — Alas for me!

      The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.

      The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall.

      What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore?

      In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers.

      Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the ever-wakeful blue sky.

      The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house — do not pass by like a dream.

      Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair.

      I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend!

      I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path!

      By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend?

      If the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged tired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast wrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the petals of the drooping lotus at dusk.

      From the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is exhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night.

      In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle, resting my trust upon thee.

      Let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship.

      It is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening.

      He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!

      He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.

      Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

      Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!

      There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame — is such thy fate, my heart? Ah, death were better by far for thee!

      Misery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful, and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.

      The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not what this is that stirs in me — I know not its meaning.

      A moment’s flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight, and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me.

      Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning