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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Gitanjali
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
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Title: Gitanjali
Author: Rabindranath Tagore
Author of introduction, etc.: W. B. Yeats
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7164]
Most recently updated: December 10, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7164
Credits: John B. Hare, Chetan Jain, Viswas G and Anand Rao
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***
Gitanjali
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: Gitanjali
Author: Rabindranath Tagore
Author of introduction, etc.: W. B. Yeats
Release date: December 1, 2004 [eBook #7164]
Most recently updated: December 10, 2023
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7164
Credits: John B. Hare, Chetan Jain, Viswas G and Anand Rao
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GITANJALI ***
Gitanjali
Page 4
Song Offerings
by Rabindranath Tagore
A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original
Bengali
With an introduction by
W. B. YEATS
by Rabindranath Tagore
A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original
Bengali
With an introduction by
W. B. YEATS
Page 5
TO
WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN
WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN
Page 6
INTRODUCTION
A few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, “I
know no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I
would go to the British Museum and find books in English that would tell
me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. But though these
prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as
nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his life, and of the
movements of thought that have made them possible, if some Indian
traveller will not tell me.” It seemed to him natural that I should be moved,
for he said, “I read Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to
forget all the troubles of the world.” I said, “An Englishman living in
London in the reign of Richard the Second had he been shown translations
from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no books to answer his
questions, but would have questioned some Florentine banker or Lombard
merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple is this
poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and I shall never
know of it except by hearsay.” He answered, “We have other poets, but
none that are his equal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet
seems to me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music
as in poetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma
wherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he
wrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older, are still played
in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his life; when he was
very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would sit all day in his
garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he
had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our
language,” and then he said with deep emotion, “words can never express
what I owed at seventeen to his love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it
became religious and philosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his
hymns. He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has
A few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, “I
know no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I
would go to the British Museum and find books in English that would tell
me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. But though these
prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as
nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his life, and of the
movements of thought that have made them possible, if some Indian
traveller will not tell me.” It seemed to him natural that I should be moved,
for he said, “I read Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to
forget all the troubles of the world.” I said, “An Englishman living in
London in the reign of Richard the Second had he been shown translations
from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no books to answer his
questions, but would have questioned some Florentine banker or Lombard
merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple is this
poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and I shall never
know of it except by hearsay.” He answered, “We have other poets, but
none that are his equal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet
seems to me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music
as in poetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma
wherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he
wrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older, are still played
in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his life; when he was
very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would sit all day in his
garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he
had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our
language,” and then he said with deep emotion, “words can never express
what I owed at seventeen to his love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it
became religious and philosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his
hymns. He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has
Page 7
spoken out of Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.” I may have
changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. “A little
while ago he was to read divine service in one of our churches—we of the
Brahma Samaj use your word ‘church’ in English—it was the largest in
Calcutta and not only was it crowded, but the streets were all but
impassable because of the people.”
Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded
strange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the same
veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were
making the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? “Every
morning at three—I know, for I have seen it”—one said to me, “he sits
immovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his
reverie upon the nature of God. His father, the Maha Rishi, would
sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he fell into
contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the rowers
waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey.” He then
told me of Mr. Tagore’s family and how for generations great men have
come out of its cradles. “Today,” he said, “there are Gogonendranath and
Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath, Rabindranath’s
brother, who is a great philosopher. The squirrels come from the boughs and
climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands.” I notice in these
men’s thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held
that doctrine of Nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or
intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon
physical things. I said, “In the East you know how to keep a family
illustrious. The other day the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little
dark-skinned man who was arranging their Chinese prints and said, “That is
the hereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family
to hold the post.’” He answered, “When Rabindranath was a boy he had all
round him in his home literature and music.” I thought of the abundance, of
the simplicity of the poems, and said, “In your country is there much
propagandist writing, much criticism? We have to do so much, especially in
my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we
cannot help it. If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have
taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and
readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste,
whether in our own minds or in the minds of others.” “I understand,” he
changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. “A little
while ago he was to read divine service in one of our churches—we of the
Brahma Samaj use your word ‘church’ in English—it was the largest in
Calcutta and not only was it crowded, but the streets were all but
impassable because of the people.”
Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded
strange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the same
veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were
making the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? “Every
morning at three—I know, for I have seen it”—one said to me, “he sits
immovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his
reverie upon the nature of God. His father, the Maha Rishi, would
sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he fell into
contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the rowers
waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey.” He then
told me of Mr. Tagore’s family and how for generations great men have
come out of its cradles. “Today,” he said, “there are Gogonendranath and
Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath, Rabindranath’s
brother, who is a great philosopher. The squirrels come from the boughs and
climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands.” I notice in these
men’s thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held
that doctrine of Nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or
intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon
physical things. I said, “In the East you know how to keep a family
illustrious. The other day the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little
dark-skinned man who was arranging their Chinese prints and said, “That is
the hereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family
to hold the post.’” He answered, “When Rabindranath was a boy he had all
round him in his home literature and music.” I thought of the abundance, of
the simplicity of the poems, and said, “In your country is there much
propagandist writing, much criticism? We have to do so much, especially in
my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we
cannot help it. If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have
taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and
readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste,
whether in our own minds or in the minds of others.” “I understand,” he
Page 8
replied, “we too have our propagandist writing. In the villages they recite
long mythological poems adapted from the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages,
and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their
duties.”
II
I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for
days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in
restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see
how much it moved me. These lyrics— which are in the original, my
Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of
colour, of metrical invention—display in their thought a world I have
dreamed of all my live long. The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear
as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. A
tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through
the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion,
and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the
noble. If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind
which—as one divines—runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a
dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is
most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the
beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England, Chaucer
wrote his Troilus and Cressida, and thought he had written to be read, or to
be read out—for our time was coming on apace—he was sung by minstrels
for a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer’s forerunners, writes music
for his words, and one understands at every moment that he is so abundant,
so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is
doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of
defence. These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies’
tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life
without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried by
students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but,
as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men
rowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in
murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more
long mythological poems adapted from the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages,
and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their
duties.”
II
I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for
days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in
restaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would see
how much it moved me. These lyrics— which are in the original, my
Indians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of
colour, of metrical invention—display in their thought a world I have
dreamed of all my live long. The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear
as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. A
tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has passed through
the centuries, gathering from learned and unlearned metaphor and emotion,
and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the
noble. If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind
which—as one divines—runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a
dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is
most subtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the
beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England, Chaucer
wrote his Troilus and Cressida, and thought he had written to be read, or to
be read out—for our time was coming on apace—he was sung by minstrels
for a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer’s forerunners, writes music
for his words, and one understands at every moment that he is so abundant,
so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is
doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of
defence. These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies’
tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life
without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried by
students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but,
as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men
rowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in
murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more
Page 9
bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment the heart of
this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it
has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the
circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he
wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the
petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride
awaiting the master’s home-coming in the empty house, are images of the
heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the
heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in
separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of
those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God
Himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us,
seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not
moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image,
as though we had walked in Rossetti’s willow wood, or heard, perhaps for
the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream.
Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints—however familiar
their metaphor and the general structure of their thought—has ceased to
hold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world, and we
are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a
voluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen
so many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh
and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have
we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell
upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the violent rhetoric of
the Book of Revelations? We would, if we might, find, as in this book,
words full of courtesy. “I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!
I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my
door—and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words
from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could
give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A
summons has come and I am ready for my journey.” And it is our own
mood, when it is furthest from A Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries,
“And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.” Yet it is not
only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not
known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet
looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the
this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it
has known that they will understand; and it has filled itself with the
circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he
wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the
petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride
awaiting the master’s home-coming in the empty house, are images of the
heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the
heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in
separation; and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of
those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God
Himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us,
seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are not
moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image,
as though we had walked in Rossetti’s willow wood, or heard, perhaps for
the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream.
Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints—however familiar
their metaphor and the general structure of their thought—has ceased to
hold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world, and we
are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a
voluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen
so many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh
and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have
we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell
upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the violent rhetoric of
the Book of Revelations? We would, if we might, find, as in this book,
words full of courtesy. “I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!
I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my
door—and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words
from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could
give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A
summons has come and I am ready for my journey.” And it is our own
mood, when it is furthest from A Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries,
“And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.” Yet it is not
only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not
known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet
looking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the
Page 10
pathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in that
mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we
have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. “Entering my
heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my
king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment.”
This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a
lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter,
painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis
and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.
III
We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make
writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight
and make money and fill our heads with politics—all dull things in the
doing—while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been
content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He
often seems to contrast life with that of those who have loved more after
our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always
humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him: “Men going
home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar
maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I
want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.” At another time, remembering
how his life had once a different shape, he will say, “Many an hour I have
spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my
playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not
why this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.” An innocence, a
simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and
the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes
of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them
and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from
religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his
brother’s hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was
growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore.
Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this
quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints,
mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that we
have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. “Entering my
heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my
king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment.”
This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the scourge; being but a
lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter,
painting the dust and the sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis
and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.
III
We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make
writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we fight
and make money and fill our heads with politics—all dull things in the
doing—while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has been
content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He
often seems to contrast life with that of those who have loved more after
our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the world, and always
humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him: “Men going
home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar
maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I
want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.” At another time, remembering
how his life had once a different shape, he will say, “Many an hour I have
spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my
playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not
why this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.” An innocence, a
simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and
the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children, and the changes
of the seasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them
and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from
religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his
brother’s hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that was
growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelanore.
Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much a part of himself this
quality seems, one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints,
Page 11
“They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With
withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast
deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not
how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls,
merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them
again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.”
W.B. YEATS
September 1912.
withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast
deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds. They know not
how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls,
merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them
again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.”
W.B. YEATS
September 1912.
Page 12
GITANJALI
Page 13
1.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou
emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast
breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou
emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast
breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
Page 14
2.
When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break
with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony—
and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I
come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I
could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art
my lord.
When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break
with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony—
and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I
come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I
could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art
my lord.
Page 15
3.
I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent
amazement.
The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music
runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony
obstacles and rushes on.
My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I
would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah,
thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my
master!
I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent
amazement.
The light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy music
runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony
obstacles and rushes on.
My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I
would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah,
thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my
master!
Page 16
4.
Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy
living touch is upon all my limbs.
I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that
thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind.
I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in
flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart.
And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is
thy power gives me strength to act.
Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that thy
living touch is upon all my limbs.
I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing that
thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my mind.
I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in
flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart.
And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is
thy power gives me strength to act.
Page 17
5.
I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have
in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and
my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs;
and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication
of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
I ask for a moment’s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I have
in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and
my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs;
and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication
of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
Page 18
6.
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop
into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain
from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and
the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy
service and pluck it while there is time.
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop
into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of pain
from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am aware, and
the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower in thy
service and pluck it while there is time.
Page 19
7.
My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and
decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between
thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet’s vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat
down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute
of reed for thee to fill with music.
My song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and
decoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between
thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.
My poet’s vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have sat
down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute
of reed for thee to fill with music.
Page 20
8.
The child who is decked with prince’s robes and who has jewelled chains
round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every
step.
In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from
the world, and is afraid even to move.
Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off from
the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the
great fair of common human life.
The child who is decked with prince’s robes and who has jewelled chains
round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at every
step.
In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself from
the world, and is afraid even to move.
Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off from
the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of entrance to the
great fair of common human life.
Page 21
9.
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come
beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look
behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its
breath. It is unholy—take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept
only what is offered by sacred love.
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come
beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look
behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its
breath. It is unholy—take not thy gifts through its unclean hands. Accept
only what is offered by sacred love.
Page 22
10.
Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and
lowliest, and lost.
When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth
where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the
humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the
companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.
Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest, and
lowliest, and lost.
When I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth
where thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
Pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the
humble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
My heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the
companionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.
Page 23
11.
Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou
worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open
thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the
pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his
garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him
come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself
has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all
for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him
and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.
Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou
worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut? Open
thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the
pathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his
garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like him
come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself
has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us all
for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him
and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.
Page 24
12.
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my
voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star
and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that
training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and
one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine
at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said “Here art
thou!”
The question and the cry “Oh, where?” melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance “I am!”
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my
voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star
and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that
training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and
one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine
at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said “Here art
thou!”
The question and the cry “Oh, where?” melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance “I am!”
Page 25
13.
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.
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.
Page 26
14.
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.
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.
Page 27
15.
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 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.
Page 28
16.
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 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?
Page 29
17.
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.
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.
Page 30
18.
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.
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.
Page 31
19.
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.
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.
Page 32
20.
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.
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.
Page 33
21.
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?
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?
Page 34
22.
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.
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.
Page 35
23.
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?
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?
Page 36
24.
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.
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.
Page 37
25.
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.
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.
Page 38
26.
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?
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?
Page 39
27.
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 fire of desire! It
thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is
black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the
lamp of love with thy life.
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 fire of desire! It
thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The night is
black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the
lamp of love with thy life.
Page 40
28.
Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best
friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.
The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug
it in love.
My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet
when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.
Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best
friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.
The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug
it in love.
My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet
when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.
Page 41
29.
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever
busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day
by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a
least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight
of my true being.
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever
busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the sky day
by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a
least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I take I lose sight
of my true being.
Page 42
30.
I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me
in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud
voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed
to come to thy door in his company.
I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me
in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud
voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed
to come to thy door in his company.
Page 43
31.
“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?”
“It was my master,” said the prisoner. “I thought I could outdo everybody
in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house
the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that
was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own
treasure-house.”
“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?”
“It was I,” said the prisoner, “who forged this chain very carefully. I
thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a
freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge
fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links
were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.”
“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?”
“It was my master,” said the prisoner. “I thought I could outdo everybody
in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own treasure-house
the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay upon the bed that
was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a prisoner in my own
treasure-house.”
“Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?”
“It was I,” said the prisoner, “who forged this chain very carefully. I
thought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in a
freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with huge
fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and the links
were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its grip.”
Page 44
32.
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it
is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me
free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes
by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for
me still waits for my love.
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it
is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me
free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes
by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for
me still waits for my love.
Page 45
33.
When it was day they came into my house and said, “We shall only take
the smallest room here.”
They said, “We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly
accept only our own share in his grace”; and then they took their seat in a
corner and they sat quiet and meek.
But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine,
strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God’s
altar.
When it was day they came into my house and said, “We shall only take
the smallest room here.”
They said, “We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly
accept only our own share in his grace”; and then they took their seat in a
corner and they sat quiet and meek.
But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine,
strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God’s
altar.
Page 46
34.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every
side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every
moment.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life—and that is the fetter of thy love.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every
side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every
moment.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life—and that is the fetter of thy love.
Page 47
35.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary
desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary
desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
Page 48
36.
This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in
my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before
insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury in
my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before
insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
Page 49
37.
I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my
power,—that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out
on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old
tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders.
I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my
power,—that the path before me was closed, that provisions were exhausted
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out
on the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the old
tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders.
Page 50
38.
That I want thee, only thee—let my heart repeat without end. All desires
that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core.
As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in
the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry—I want thee, only thee.
As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with
all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry
is—I want thee, only thee.
That I want thee, only thee—let my heart repeat without end. All desires
that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core.
As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in
the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry—I want thee, only thee.
As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with
all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry
is—I want thee, only thee.
Page 51
39.
When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of
mercy.
When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.
When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.
When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open
the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.
When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.
When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of
mercy.
When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.
When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.
When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open
the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.
When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.
Page 52
40.
The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked—not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the
vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes
of lightning startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen
and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the
mother on the day of the father’s wrath.
The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked—not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the
vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with lashes
of lightning startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and keen
and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the
mother on the day of the father’s wrath.
Page 53
41.
Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while
passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly
empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes
are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me
with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and
when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast
promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry
this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden
splendour of thy coming—all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over
thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come
down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged
beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer
breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a
procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only
thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only
I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?
Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while
passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly
empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes
are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me
with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and
when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast
promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry
this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden
splendour of thy coming—all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over
thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come
down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged
beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer
breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a
procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only
thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only
I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?
Page 54
42.
Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou
and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to
no country and to no end.
In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would
swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.
Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has
come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying
to their nests.
Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last
glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?
Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou
and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to
no country and to no end.
In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would
swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.
Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has
come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying
to their nests.
Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last
glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?
Page 55
43.
The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and
entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to
me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting
moment of my life.
And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find
they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and
sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.
Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and
the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from
star to star.
The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and
entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to
me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting
moment of my life.
And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find
they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys and
sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.
Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and
the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from
star to star.
Page 56
44.
This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow
chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer.
Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along
the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is
sweet.
From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a
sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see.
In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is
filling with the perfume of promise.
This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow
chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer.
Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along
the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is
sweet.
From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a
sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see.
In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air is
filling with the perfume of promise.
Page 57
45.
Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes,
comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes
have always proclaimed, “He comes, comes, ever comes.”
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he
comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is
the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes,
comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes
have always proclaimed, “He comes, comes, ever comes.”
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he
comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is
the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
Page 58
46.
I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet
me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy
messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous
joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a
faint smell of thy sweet presence.
I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet
me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy
messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous
joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a
faint smell of thy sweet presence.
Page 59
47.
The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the
morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied
out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him— forbid him not.
If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I
pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds,
by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed
even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.
Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish.
Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile
when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep.
Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The
first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let
my return to myself be immediate return to him.
The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the
morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied
out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him— forbid him not.
If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I
pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds,
by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed
even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.
Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish.
Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his smile
when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep.
Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all forms. The
first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance. And let
my return to myself be immediate return to him.
Page 60
48.
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the
flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered
through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no
heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter;
we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened
our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered
leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed
and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by
the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and
hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant
blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through
strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the
interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no
response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation
—in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my
heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without
struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee
standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the
path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the
flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered
through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no
heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter;
we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened
our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered
leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed
and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself down by
the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and
hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distant
blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through
strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the
interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no
response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation
—in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my
heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without
struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee
standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the
path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
Page 61
49.
You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.
I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You
came down and stood at my cottage door.
Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But
the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain
mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you
came down and stopped at my cottage door.
You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.
I was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear. You
came down and stood at my cottage door.
Masters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours. But
the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive little strain
mingled with the great music of the world, and with a flower for a prize you
came down and stopped at my cottage door.
Page 62
50.
I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy
golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I
wondered who was this King of all kings!
My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I
stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all
sides in the dust.
The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou
camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last.
Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say “What hast
thou to give to me?”
Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was
confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out
the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.
But how great my surprise when at the day’s end I emptied my bag on the
floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept
and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.
I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy
golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I
wondered who was this King of all kings!
My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I
stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on all
sides in the dust.
The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou
camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last.
Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say “What hast
thou to give to me?”
Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I was
confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took out
the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.
But how great my surprise when at the day’s end I emptied my bag on the
floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I bitterly wept
and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.
Page 63
51.
The night darkened. Our day’s works had been done. We thought that the
last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut.
Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said “No, it cannot
be!”
It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but
the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, “It
is the messenger!” We laughed and said “No, it must be the wind!”
There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was
the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in
our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy
murmur, “No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!”
The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came “Wake
up! delay not!” We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with
fear. Some said, “Lo, there is the king’s flag!” We stood up on our feet and
cried “There is no time for delay!”
The king has come—but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is
the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the
decorations? Someone has said, “Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty
hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!”
Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night
has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky.
The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat
and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our
king of the fearful night.
The night darkened. Our day’s works had been done. We thought that the
last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut.
Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said “No, it cannot
be!”
It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but
the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, “It
is the messenger!” We laughed and said “No, it must be the wind!”
There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was
the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled us in
our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy
murmur, “No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!”
The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came “Wake
up! delay not!” We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with
fear. Some said, “Lo, there is the king’s flag!” We stood up on our feet and
cried “There is no time for delay!”
The king has come—but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is
the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the
decorations? Someone has said, “Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty
hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!”
Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the night
has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky.
The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat
and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden our
king of the fearful night.
Page 64
52.
I thought I should ask of thee—but I dared not—the rose wreath thou
hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to
find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn
only for a stray petal or two.
Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no
spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a
flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes
through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning bird
twitters and asks, “Woman, what hast thou got?” No, it is no flower, nor
spices, nor vase of perfumed water—it is thy dreadful sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to
hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it
to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain,
this gift of thine.
From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt
be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I
shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my
bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more
shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and
sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No
more doll’s decorations for me!
I thought I should ask of thee—but I dared not—the rose wreath thou
hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst depart, to
find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn
only for a stray petal or two.
Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no
spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a
flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes
through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning bird
twitters and asks, “Woman, what hast thou got?” No, it is no flower, nor
spices, nor vase of perfumed water—it is thy dreadful sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no place to
hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it
to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain,
this gift of thine.
From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt
be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion and I
shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my
bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more
shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and
sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment. No
more doll’s decorations for me!
Page 65
53.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in
myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve
of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly
poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final
stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earthly
sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord
of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in
myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve
of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly
poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final
stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning up earthly
sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O lord
of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold or think of.
Page 66
54.
I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou
took’st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of
the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen
pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, “Come with us, the
morning is wearing on to noon.” But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the
midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell
on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low—“Ah, I am a thirsty
traveller.” I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar
on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the
unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road.
I stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed,
what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that
I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and
enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary
notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.
I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou
took’st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of
the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen
pitchers full to the brim. They called me and shouted, “Come with us, the
morning is wearing on to noon.” But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the
midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell
on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low—“Ah, I am a thirsty
traveller.” I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar
on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the
unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road.
I stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed,
what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that
I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and
enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary
notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.
Page 67
55.
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour
among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend
is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun—
what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst—
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will
not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain?
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour
among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend
is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun—
what if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst—
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will
not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain?
Page 68
56.
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down
to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the
endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape.
And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty
to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy
lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two.
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down
to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the
endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape.
And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty
to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy
lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two.
Page 69
57.
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-
sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes,
my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild,
laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines
surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters
gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without
measure. The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is
abroad.
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light, heart-
sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light strikes,
my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind runs wild,
laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines
surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it scatters
gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without
measure. The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is
abroad.
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58.
Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song—the joy that makes the
earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin
brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in
with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits
still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws
everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.
Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song—the joy that makes the
earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that sets the twin
brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world, the joy that sweeps in
with the tempest, shaking and waking all life with laughter, the joy that sits
still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain, and the joy that throws
everything it has upon the dust, and knows not a word.
Page 71
59.
Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart— this
golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the
sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes—this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart
has touched thy feet.
Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart— this
golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing across the
sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes—this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my heart
has touched thy feet.
Page 72
60.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is
motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of
endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With
withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast
deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl
fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather
pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they
know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea
beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even
like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the
pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and
children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of
children.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is
motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of
endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With
withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast
deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl
fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather
pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they
know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea
beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even
like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children,
and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the
pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and
children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of
children.
Page 73
61.
The sleep that flits on baby’s eyes—does anybody know from where it
comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the fairy
village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang
two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby’s eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps—does anybody
know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a
crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the
smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning—the smile that
flickers on baby’s 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.
The sleep that flits on baby’s eyes—does anybody know from where it
comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the fairy
village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang
two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby’s eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps—does anybody
know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a
crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the
smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning—the smile that
flickers on baby’s 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.
Page 74
62.
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.
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.
Page 75
63.
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.
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.
Page 76
64.
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.
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.
Page 77
65.
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.
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.
Page 78
66.
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.
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.
Page 79
67.
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.
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.
Page 80
68.
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.
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.
Page 81
69.
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.
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.
Page 82
70.
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.
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.
Page 83
71.
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.
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.
Page 84
72.
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.
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.
Page 85
73.
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.
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.
Page 86
74.
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.
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.
Page 87
75.
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.
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.
Page 88
76.
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.
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.
Page 89
77.
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.
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.
Page 90
78.
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!”
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!”
Page 91
79.
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.
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.
Page 92
80.
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 this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness
of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind
and spread it in varied wonders.
And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt
and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning,
in a coolness of purity transparent.
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 this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness
of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind
and spread it in varied wonders.
And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt
and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning,
in a coolness of purity transparent.
Page 93
81.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost,
my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds
into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had
ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of
flowers.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never lost,
my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds
into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had
ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of
flowers.
Page 94
82.
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy
minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou
knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a
chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man
who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find
that yet there is time.
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy
minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou
knowest how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a
chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man
who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I find
that yet there is time.
Page 95
83.
Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of
sorrow.
The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine
will hang upon thy breast.
Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold
them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to
thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.
Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of
sorrow.
The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine
will hang upon thy breast.
Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold
them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to
thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.
Page 96
84.
It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives
birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to
star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows
in songs through my poet’s heart.
It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives
birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.
It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to
star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and flows
in songs through my poet’s heart.
Page 97
85.
When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where had they
hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms?
They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them
on the day they came out from their master’s hall.
When the warriors marched back again to their master’s hall where did
they hide their power?
They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace
was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them
on the day they marched back again to their master’s hall.
When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where had they
hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms?
They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them
on the day they came out from their master’s hall.
When the warriors marched back again to their master’s hall where did
they hide their power?
They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace
was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them
on the day they marched back again to their master’s hall.
Page 98
86.
Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and
brought thy call to my home.
The night is dark and my heart is fearful—yet I will take up the lamp,
open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands
at my door.
I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.
He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my
morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my
last offering to thee.
Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and
brought thy call to my home.
The night is dark and my heart is fearful—yet I will take up the lamp,
open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands
at my door.
I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.
He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my
morning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my
last offering to thee.
Page 99
87.
In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I
find her not.
My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.
But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to
thy door.
I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager
eyes to thy face.
I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish—no
hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest
fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the
universe.
In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; I
find her not.
My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.
But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to
thy door.
I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager
eyes to thy face.
I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish—no
hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest
fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the
universe.
Page 100
88.
Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your
praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air
is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the
tidings of flowers—the flowers that for your worship are offered no more.
Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In
the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he
wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple.
Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the
holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless
neglect.
Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina sing no more your
praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air
is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the
tidings of flowers—the flowers that for your worship are offered no more.
Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In
the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he
wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple.
Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the
holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless
neglect.
Page 101
89.
No more noisy, loud words from me—such is my master’s will.
Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in
murmurings of a song.
Men hasten to the King’s market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But
I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work.
Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time;
and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.
Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but
now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart
on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless
inconsequence!
No more noisy, loud words from me—such is my master’s will.
Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in
murmurings of a song.
Men hasten to the King’s market. All the buyers and sellers are there. But
I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work.
Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time;
and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.
Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but
now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart
on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless
inconsequence!
Page 102
90.
On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to
him?
Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life—I will never let
him go with empty hands.
All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the
earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close
of my days when death will knock at my door.
On the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to
him?
Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life—I will never let
him go with empty hands.
All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the
earnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the close
of my days when death will knock at my door.
Page 103
91.
O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to
me!
Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys
and pangs of life.
All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed
towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my
life will be ever thine own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the
bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her
lord alone in the solitude of night.
O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper to
me!
Day after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the joys
and pangs of life.
All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever flowed
towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my
life will be ever thine own.
The flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the
bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her
lord alone in the solitude of night.
Page 104
92.
I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave
like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments
breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got—let them pass. Let
me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked.
I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours heave
like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments
breaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got—let them pass. Let
me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked.
Page 105
93.
I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and
take my departure.
Here I give back the keys of my door—and I give up all claims to my
house. I only ask for last kind words from you.
We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now
the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons
has come and I am ready for my journey.
I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and
take my departure.
Here I give back the keys of my door—and I give up all claims to my
house. I only ask for last kind words from you.
We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now
the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons
has come and I am ready for my journey.
Page 106
94.
At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is
flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful.
Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with
empty hands and expectant heart.
I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the
traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind.
The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive
notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King’s gateway.
At this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is
flushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful.
Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with
empty hands and expectant heart.
I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the
traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear in mind.
The evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive
notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King’s gateway.
Page 107
95.
I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this
life.
What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a
bud in the forest at midnight!
When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was
no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had
taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.
And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.
I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this
life.
What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a
bud in the forest at midnight!
When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was
no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had
taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me.
And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.
Page 108
96.
When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen
is unsurpassable.
I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean
of light, and thus am I blessed—let this be my parting word.
In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I
caught sight of him that is formless.
My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond
touch; and if the end comes here, let it come—let this be my parting word.
When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen
is unsurpassable.
I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean
of light, and thus am I blessed—let this be my parting word.
In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I
caught sight of him that is formless.
My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond
touch; and if the end comes here, let it come—let this be my parting word.
Page 109
97.
When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew
nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.
In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own
comrade and lead me running from glade to glade.
On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest
to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their
cadence.
Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come
upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its
silent stars.
When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew
nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.
In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own
comrade and lead me running from glade to glade.
On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest
to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their
cadence.
Now, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come
upon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its
silent stars.
Page 110
98.
I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my
power to escape unconquered.
I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in
exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow
reed, and the stone will melt in tears.
I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for
ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared.
From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence.
Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive
at thy feet.
I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in my
power to escape unconquered.
I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in
exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow
reed, and the stone will melt in tears.
I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for
ever and the secret recess of its honey will be bared.
From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence.
Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive
at thy feet.
Page 111
99.
When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take
it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle.
Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my
heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are
placed.
These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to
light them I forget all else again and again.
But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on
the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take
thy seat here.
When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take
it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle.
Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my
heart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are
placed.
These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to
light them I forget all else again and again.
But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on
the floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take
thy seat here.
Page 112
100.
I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the
perfect pearl of the formless.
No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten
boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.
And now I am eager to die into the deathless.
Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music
of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life.
I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last
utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.
I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the
perfect pearl of the formless.
No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten
boat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.
And now I am eager to die into the deathless.
Into the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music
of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life.
I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last
utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.
Page 113
101.
Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me
from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and
touching my world.
It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed
me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of
my heart.
They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of
pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have they brought me in
the evening at the end of my journey?
Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me
from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and
touching my world.
It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they showed
me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of
my heart.
They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of
pleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have they brought me in
the evening at the end of my journey?
Page 114
102.
I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all
works of mine. They come and ask me, “Who is he?” I know not how to
answer them. I say, “Indeed, I cannot tell.” They blame me and they go
away in scorn. And you sit there smiling.
I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my
heart. They come and ask me, “Tell me all your meanings.” I know not how
to answer them. I say, “Ah, who knows what they mean!” They smile and
go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling.
I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all
works of mine. They come and ask me, “Who is he?” I know not how to
answer them. I say, “Indeed, I cannot tell.” They blame me and they go
away in scorn. And you sit there smiling.
I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my
heart. They come and ask me, “Tell me all your meanings.” I know not how
to answer them. I say, “Ah, who knows what they mean!” They smile and
go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling.
Page 115
103.
In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch
this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let
all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current
and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their
mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one
salutation to thee.
In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch
this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers let
all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current
and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their
mountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one
salutation to thee.
Page 116
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