Gitanjali. Rabindranath Tagore

lips when he sleeps.

      The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs — does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love — the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby’s limbs.

      When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints — when I give coloured toys to you, my child.

      When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth — when I sing to make you dance.

      When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice — when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.

      When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body — when I kiss you to make you smile.

      Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger.

      I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest.

      Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.

      When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many.

      On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her, ‘Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house is all dark and lonesome — lend me your light!’ she raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. ‘I have come to the river,’ she said, ‘to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.’ I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide.

      In the silence of gathering night I asked her, ‘Maiden, your lights are all lit — then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and lonesome — lend me your light.’ She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful. ‘I have come,’ she said at last, ‘to dedicate my lamp to the sky.’ I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void.

      In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, ‘Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and lonesome — lend me your light.’ She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark. ‘I have brought my light,’ she said, ‘to join the carnival of lamps.’ I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

      What divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup of my life?

      My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal harmony?

      Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own entire sweetness in me.

      She who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song.

      Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.

      I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life.

      Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.

      Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in despair.

      There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

      Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.

      O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours.

      There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.

      And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest.

      But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul 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