{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_7164/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_7164","id":"gutenberg_7164","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7164","summary":null,"tags":["Bengali poetry -- Translations into English","Category: Poetry","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Indic poetry -- Translations into English","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Prose poems, Bengali -- Translations into English","Tagore, Rabindranath, 1861-1941 -- Translations into English"],"text":"Gitanjali\n\nSong Offerings\n\nby Rabindranath Tagore\n\nA collection of prose translations made by the author from the original\nBengali\n\nWith an introduction by\nW. B. YEATS\n\n\n\n\nTO\nWILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nA few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, \u201cI\nknow no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I\nwould go to the British Museum and find books in English that would\ntell me something of his life, and of the history of his thought. But\nthough these prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred\nmy blood as nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his\nlife, and of the movements of thought that have made them possible, if\nsome Indian traveller will not tell me.\u201d It seemed to him natural that\nI should be moved, for he said, \u201cI read Rabindranath every day, to read\none line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.\u201d I said,\n\u201cAn Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard the Second had\nhe been shown translations from Petrarch or from Dante, would have\nfound no books to answer his questions, but would have questioned some\nFlorentine banker or Lombard merchant as I question you. For all I\nknow, so abundant and simple is this poetry, the new renaissance has\nbeen born in your country and I shall never know of it except by\nhearsay.\u201d He answered, \u201cWe have other poets, but none that are his\nequal; we call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet seems to me as\nfamous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music as in\npoetry, and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma\nwherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he\nwrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older, are\nstill played in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his\nlife; when he was very young he wrote much of natural objects, he would\nsit all day in his garden; from his twenty-fifth year or so to his\nthirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great sorrow, he wrote the most\nbeautiful love poetry in our language,\u201d and then he said with deep\nemotion, \u201cwords can never express what I owed at seventeen to his love\npoetry. After that his art grew deeper, it became religious and\nphilosophical; all the inspiration of mankind are in his hymns. He is\nthe first among our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken\nout of Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.\u201d I may have\nchanged his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought. \u201cA\nlittle while ago he was to read divine service in one of our\nchurches\u2014we of the Brahma Samaj use your word \u2018church\u2019 in English\u2014it\nwas the largest in Calcutta and not only was it crowded, but the\nstreets were all but impassable because of the people.\u201d\n\nOther Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded\nstrange in our world, where we hide great and little things under the\nsame veil of obvious comedy and half-serious depreciation. When we were\nmaking the cathedrals had we a like reverence for our great men? \u201cEvery\nmorning at three\u2014I know, for I have seen it\u201d\u2014one said to me, \u201che sits\nimmovable in contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his\nreverie upon the nature of God. His father, the Maha Rishi, would\nsometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river, he\nfell into contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape, and the\nrowers waited for eight hours before they could continue their\njourney.\u201d He then told me of Mr. Tagore\u2019s family and how for\ngenerations great men have come out of its cradles. \u201cToday,\u201d he said,\n\u201cthere are Gogonendranath and Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists;\nand Dwijendranath, Rabindranath\u2019s brother, who is a great philosopher.\nThe squirrels come from the boughs and climb on to his knees and the\nbirds alight upon his hands.\u201d I notice in these men\u2019s thought a sense\nof visible beauty and meaning as though they held that doctrine of\nNietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or intellectual beauty\nwhich does not sooner or later impress itself upon physical things. I\nsaid, \u201cIn the East you know how to keep a family illustrious. The other\nday the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man\nwho was arranging their Chinese prints and said, \u201cThat is the\nhereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his\nfamily to hold the post.\u2019\u201d He answered, \u201cWhen Rabindranath was a boy he\nhad all round him in his home literature and music.\u201d I thought of the\nabundance, of the simplicity of the poems, and said, \u201cIn your country\nis there much propagandist writing, much criticism? We have to do so\nmuch, especially in my own country, that our minds gradually cease to\nbe creative, and yet we cannot help it. If our life was not a continual\nwarfare, we would not have taste, we would not know what is good, we\nwould not find hearers and readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent\nin the quarrel with bad taste, whether in our own minds or in the minds\nof others.\u201d \u201cI understand,\u201d he replied, \u201cwe too have our propagandist\nwriting. In the villages they recite long mythological poems adapted\nfrom the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages, and they often insert passages\ntelling the people that they must do their duties.\u201d\n\n\nII\n\nI have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for\ndays, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of omnibuses and in\nrestaurants, and I have often had to close it lest some stranger would\nsee how much it moved me. These lyrics\u2014 which are in the original, my\nIndians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm, of untranslatable\ndelicacies of colour, of metrical invention\u2014display in their thought a\nworld I have dreamed of all my live long. The work of a supreme\nculture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the\ngrass and the rushes. A tradition, where poetry and religion are the\nsame thing, has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned\nand unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the\nmultitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. If the\ncivilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind which\u2014as\none divines\u2014runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a dozen\nminds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is most\nsubtle in these verses will have come, in a few generations, to the\nbeggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England, Chaucer\nwrote his _Troilus and Cressida_, and thought he had written to be\nread, or to be read out\u2014for our time was coming on apace\u2014he was sung by\nminstrels for a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer\u2019s forerunners,\nwrites music for his words, and one understands at every moment that he\nis so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of\nsurprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed strange,\nunnatural, or in need of defence. These verses will not lie in little\nwell-printed books upon ladies\u2019 tables, who turn the pages with\nindolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is\nyet all they can know of life, or be carried by students at the\nuniversity to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the\ngenerations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men\nrowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall\nfind, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their\nown more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment\nthe heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or\ncondescension, for it has known that they will understand; and it has\nfilled itself with the circumstance of their lives. The traveller in\nthe read-brown clothes that he wears that dust may not show upon him,\nthe girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of\nher royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master\u2019s\nhome-coming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God.\nFlowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the\nIndian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and\na man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of those\nfigures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is God\nHimself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to\nus, seems to have been taken up into this imagination; and yet we are\nnot moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own\nimage, as though we had walked in Rossetti\u2019s willow wood, or heard,\nperhaps for the first time in literature, our voice as in a dream.\n\nSince the Renaissance the writing of European saints\u2014however familiar\ntheir metaphor and the general structure of their thought\u2014has ceased to\nhold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world, and\nwe are accustomed in moments of weariness or exaltation to consider a\nvoluntary forsaking; but how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen\nso many paintings, listened to so much music, where the cry of the\nflesh and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely?\nWhat have we in common with St. Bernard covering his eyes that they may\nnot dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with the\nviolent rhetoric of the Book of Revelations? We would, if we might,\nfind, as in this book, words full of courtesy. \u201cI have got my leave.\nBid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and take my departure.\nHere I give back the keys of my door\u2014and I give up all claims to my\nhouse. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for\nlong, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and\nthe lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am\nready for my journey.\u201d And it is our own mood, when it is furthest from\nA Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries, \u201cAnd because I love this\nlife, I know I shall love death as well.\u201d Yet it is not only in our\nthoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not known\nthat we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in Him; yet\nlooking backward upon our life we discover, in our exploration of the\npathways of woods, in our delight in the lonely places of hills, in\nthat mysterious claim that we have made, unavailingly on the woman that\nwe have loved, the emotion that created this insidious sweetness.\n\u201cEntering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to\nme, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a\nfleeting moment.\u201d This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the\nscourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater intensity\nof the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the sunlight, and we\ngo for a like voice to St. Francis and to William Blake who have seemed\nso alien in our violent history.\n\n\nIII\n\nWe write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make\nwriting a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just as we\nfight and make money and fill our heads with politics\u2014all dull things\nin the doing\u2014while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself, has\nbeen content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its\nspontaneity. He often seems to contrast life with that of those who\nhave loved more after our fashion, and have more seeming weight in the\nworld, and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is best\nfor him: \u201cMen going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame.\nI sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they\nask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.\u201d At\nanother time, remembering how his life had once a different shape, he\nwill say, \u201cMany an hour I have spent in the strife of the good and the\nevil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to\ndraw my heart on to him; and I know not why this sudden call to what\nuseless inconsequence.\u201d An innocence, a simplicity that one does not\nfind elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as\nnear to him as they are near to children, and the changes of the\nseasons great events as before our thoughts had arisen between them and\nus. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or\nfrom religion, and at other times, remembering the birds alighting on\nhis brother\u2019s hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a\nmystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a\nTristan or a Pelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much\na part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he is not\nalso speaking of the saints, \u201cThey build their houses with sand and\nthey play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their\nboats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their\nplay on the seashore of worlds. They know not how to swim, they know\nnot how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in\ntheir ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They\nseek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.\u201d\n\nW.B. YEATS\n\n\n_September_ 1912.\n\n\n\n\nGITANJALI\n\n\n\n\n1.\n\n\nThou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou\nemptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.\n\nThis little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and\nhast breathed through it melodies eternally new.\n\nAt the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in\njoy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.\n\nThy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.\nAges pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.\n\n\n\n\n2.\n\n\nWhen thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with\npride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.\n\nAll that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet\nharmony\u2014and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight\nacross the sea.\n\nI know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer\nI come before thy presence.\n\nI touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which\nI could never aspire to reach.\n\nDrunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who\nart my lord.\n\n\n\n\n3.\n\n\nI know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent\namazement.\n\nThe light of thy music illumines the world. The life breath of thy\nmusic runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through\nall stony obstacles and rushes on.\n\nMy heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I\nwould speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled.\nAh, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music,\nmy master!\n\n\n\n\n4.\n\n\nLife of my life, I shall ever try to keep my body pure, knowing that\nthy living touch is upon all my limbs.\n\nI shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts, knowing\nthat thou art that truth which has kindled the light of reason in my\nmind.\n\nI shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love\nin flower, knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my\nheart.\n\nAnd it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it\nis thy power gives me strength to act.\n\n\n\n\n5.\n\n\nI ask for a moment\u2019s indulgence to sit by thy side. The works that I\nhave in hand I will finish afterwards.\n\nAway from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite, and\nmy work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.\n\nToday the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and\nthe bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering\ngrove.\n\nNow it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing\ndedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.\n\n\n\n\n6.\n\n\nPluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it droop\nand drop into the dust.\n\nI may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of\npain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am\naware, and the time of offering go by.\n\nThough its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower\nin thy service and pluck it while there is time.\n\n\n\n\n7.\n\n\nMy song has put off her adornments. She has no pride of dress and\ndecoration. Ornaments would mar our union; they would come between thee\nand me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.\n\nMy poet\u2019s vanity dies in shame before thy sight. O master poet, I have\nsat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight,\nlike a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.\n\n\n\n\n8.\n\n\nThe child who is decked with prince\u2019s robes and who has jewelled chains\nround his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress hampers him at\nevery step.\n\nIn fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps himself\nfrom the world, and is afraid even to move.\n\nMother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one shut off\nfrom the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of the right of\nentrance to the great fair of common human life.\n\n\n\n\n9.\n\n\nO Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders! O beggar, to come\nbeg at thy own door!\n\nLeave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all, and never look\nbehind in regret.\n\nThy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its\nbreath. It is unholy\u2014take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.\nAccept only what is offered by sacred love.\n\n\n\n\n10.\n\n\nHere is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest,\nand lowliest, and lost.\n\nWhen I try to bow to thee, my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth\nwhere thy feet rest among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.\n\nPride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the\nhumble among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.\n\nMy heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the\ncompanionless among the poorest, the lowliest, and the lost.\n\n\n\n\n11.\n\n\nLeave this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom dost thou\nworship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?\nOpen thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!\n\nHe is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the\npathmaker is breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and\nhis garment is covered with dust. Put of thy holy mantle and even like\nhim come down on the dusty soil!\n\nDeliverance? Where is this deliverance to be found? Our master himself\nhas joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation; he is bound with us\nall for ever.\n\nCome out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!\nWhat harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him\nand stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.\n\n\n\n\n12.\n\n\nThe time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.\n\nI came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my\nvoyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a\nstar and planet.\n\nIt is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself, and that\ntraining is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a\ntune.\n\nThe traveller has to knock at every alien door to come to his own, and\none has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost\nshrine at the end.\n\nMy eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said \u201cHere art\nthou!\u201d\n\nThe question and the cry \u201cOh, where?\u201d melt into tears of a thousand\nstreams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance \u201cI am!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n13.\n\n\nThe song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.\n\nI have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.\n\nThe time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only\nthere is the agony of wishing in my heart.\n\nThe blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.\n\nI have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have\nheard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.\n\nThe livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the\nlamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.\n\nI live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.\n\n\n\n\n14.\n\n\nMy desires are many and my cry is pitiful, but ever didst thou save me\nby hard refusals; and this strong mercy has been wrought into my life\nthrough and through.\n\nDay by day thou art making me worthy of the simple, great gifts that\nthou gavest to me unasked\u2014this sky and the light, this body and the\nlife and the mind\u2014saving me from perils of overmuch desire.\n\nThere are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken and\nhurry in search of my goal; but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before\nme.\n\nDay by day thou art making me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing\nme ever and anon, saving me from perils of weak, uncertain desire.\n\n\n\n\n15.\n\n\nI am here to sing thee songs. In this hall of thine I have a corner\nseat.\n\nIn thy world I have no work to do; my useless life can only break out\nin tunes without a purpose.\n\nWhen the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of\nmidnight, command me, my master, to stand before thee to sing.\n\nWhen in the morning air the golden harp is tuned, honour me, commanding\nmy presence.\n\n\n\n\n16.\n\n\nI have had my invitation to this world\u2019s festival, and thus my life has\nbeen blessed. My eyes have seen and my ears have heard.\n\nIt was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument, and I have\ndone all I could.\n\nNow, I ask, has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face\nand offer thee my silent salutation?\n\n\n\n\n17.\n\n\nI am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands.\nThat is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions.\n\nThey come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast; but I evade\nthem ever, for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last\ninto his hands.\n\nPeople blame me and call me heedless; I doubt not they are right in\ntheir blame.\n\nThe market day is over and work is all done for the busy. Those who\ncame to call me in vain have gone back in anger. I am only waiting for\nlove to give myself up at last into his hands.\n\n\n\n\n18.\n\n\nClouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me\nwait outside at the door all alone?\n\nIn the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on\nthis dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.\n\nIf thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I\nknow not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours.\n\nI keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders\nwailing with the restless wind.\n\n\n\n\n19.\n\n\nIf thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure\nit. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its\nhead bent low with patience.\n\nThe morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice\npour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.\n\nThen thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds\u2019\nnests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest\ngroves.\n\n\n\n\n20.\n\n\nOn the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying, and I\nknew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.\n\nOnly now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my\ndream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.\n\nThat vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to\nme that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its\ncompletion.\n\nI knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this\nperfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.\n\n\n\n\n21.\n\n\nI must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the shore\u2014Alas\nfor me!\n\nThe spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with the\nburden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.\n\nThe waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane\nthe yellow leaves flutter and fall.\n\nWhat emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing\nthrough the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the\nother shore?\n\n\n\n\n22.\n\n\nIn the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou walkest,\nsilent as night, eluding all watchers.\n\nToday the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent calls\nof the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over the\never-wakeful blue sky.\n\nThe woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at every\nhouse. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street. Oh my\nonly friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house\u2014do not\npass by like a dream.\n\n\n\n\n23.\n\n\nArt thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend?\nThe sky groans like one in despair.\n\nI have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look out on\nthe darkness, my friend!\n\nI can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path!\n\nBy what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the\nfrowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading\nthy course to come to me, my friend?\n\n\n\n\n24.\n\n\nIf the day is done, if birds sing no more, if the wind has flagged\ntired, then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me, even as thou hast\nwrapt the earth with the coverlet of sleep and tenderly closed the\npetals of the drooping lotus at dusk.\n\nFrom the traveller, whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage\nis ended, whose garment is torn and dustladen, whose strength is\nexhausted, remove shame and poverty, and renew his life like a flower\nunder the cover of thy kindly night.\n\n\n\n\n25.\n\n\nIn the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without\nstruggle, resting my trust upon thee.\n\nLet me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy\nworship.\n\nIt is thou who drawest the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day\nto renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening.\n\n\n\n\n26.\n\n\nHe came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was,\nO miserable me!\n\nHe came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my\ndreams became resonant with its melodies.\n\nAlas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight\nwhose breath touches my sleep?\n\n\n\n\n27.\n\n\nLight, oh where is the light? Kindle it with the burning fire of\ndesire!\n\nThere is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame\u2014is such thy fate, my\nheart? Ah, death were better by far for thee!\n\nMisery knocks at thy door, and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,\nand he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.\n\nThe sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless. I know not\nwhat this is that stirs in me\u2014I know not its meaning.\n\nA moment\u2019s flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,\nand my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls\nme.\n\nLight, oh where is the light! Kindle it with the burning fire of\ndesire! It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void. The\nnight is black as a black stone. Let not the hours pass by in the dark.\nKindle the lamp of love with thy life.\n\n\n\n\n28.\n\n\nObstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break\nthem.\n\nFreedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.\n\nI am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my\nbest friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that\nfills my room.\n\nThe shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet\nhug it in love.\n\nMy debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet\nwhen I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be\ngranted.\n\n\n\n\n29.\n\n\nHe whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon. I am ever\nbusy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into the\nsky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.\n\nI take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand\nlest a least hole should be left in this name; and for all the care I\ntake I lose sight of my true being.\n\n\n\n\n30.\n\n\nI came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me\nin the silent dark?\n\nI move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not.\n\nHe makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his\nloud voice to every word that I utter.\n\nHe is my own little self, my lord, he knows no shame; but I am ashamed\nto come to thy door in his company.\n\n\n\n\n31.\n\n\n\u201cPrisoner, tell me, who was it that bound you?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was my master,\u201d said the prisoner. \u201cI thought I could outdo\neverybody in the world in wealth and power, and I amassed in my own\ntreasure-house the money due to my king. When sleep overcame me I lay\nupon the bed that was for my lord, and on waking up I found I was a\nprisoner in my own treasure-house.\u201d\n\n\u201cPrisoner, tell me, who was it that wrought this unbreakable chain?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was I,\u201d said the prisoner, \u201cwho forged this chain very carefully. I\nthought my invincible power would hold the world captive leaving me in\na freedom undisturbed. Thus night and day I worked at the chain with\nhuge fires and cruel hard strokes. When at last the work was done and\nthe links were complete and unbreakable, I found that it held me in its\ngrip.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n32.\n\n\nBy all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But\nit is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thou\nkeepest me free.\n\nLest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes\nby after day and thou art not seen.\n\nIf I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy\nlove for me still waits for my love.\n\n\n\n\n33.\n\n\nWhen it was day they came into my house and said, \u201cWe shall only take\nthe smallest room here.\u201d\n\nThey said, \u201cWe shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly\naccept only our own share in his grace\u201d; and then they took their seat\nin a corner and they sat quiet and meek.\n\nBut in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine,\nstrong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from\nGod\u2019s altar.\n\n\n\n\n34.\n\n\nLet only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.\n\nLet only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on\nevery side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love\nevery moment.\n\nLet only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.\n\nLet only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy\nwill, and thy purpose is carried out in my life\u2014and that is the fetter\nof thy love.\n\n\n\n\n35.\n\n\nWhere the mind is without fear and the head is held high;\n\nWhere knowledge is free;\n\nWhere the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow\ndomestic walls;\n\nWhere words come out from the depth of truth;\n\nWhere tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;\n\nWhere the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary\ndesert sand of dead habit;\n\nWhere the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and\naction\u2014\n\nInto that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.\n\n\n\n\n36.\n\n\nThis is my prayer to thee, my lord\u2014strike, strike at the root of penury\nin my heart.\n\nGive me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.\n\nGive me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.\n\nGive me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before\ninsolent might.\n\nGive me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.\n\nAnd give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with\nlove.\n\n\n\n\n37.\n\n\nI thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my\npower,\u2014that the path before me was closed, that provisions were\nexhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.\n\nBut I find that thy will knows no end in me. And when old words die out\non the tongue, new melodies break forth from the heart; and where the\nold tracks are lost, new country is revealed with its wonders.\n\n\n\n\n38.\n\n\nThat I want thee, only thee\u2014let my heart repeat without end. All\ndesires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the\ncore.\n\nAs the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even\nthus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry\u2014I want thee, only\nthee.\n\nAs the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace\nwith all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and\nstill its cry is\u2014I want thee, only thee.\n\n\n\n\n39.\n\n\nWhen the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of\nmercy.\n\nWhen grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.\n\nWhen tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from\nbeyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.\n\nWhen my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open\nthe door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.\n\nWhen desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,\nthou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.\n\n\n\n\n40.\n\n\nThe rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The\nhorizon is fiercely naked\u2014not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not\nthe vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.\n\nSend thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with\nlashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end.\n\nBut call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and\nkeen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.\n\nLet the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the\nmother on the day of the father\u2019s wrath.\n\n\n\n\n41.\n\n\nWhere dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the\nshadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee\nfor naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee,\nwhile passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is\nnearly empty.\n\nThe morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes\nare drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill\nme with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face,\nand when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them\nnot.\n\nOh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou\nhast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my\ndowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.\n\nI sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden\nsplendour of thy coming\u2014all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying\nover thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see\nthee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy\nside this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a\ncreeper in a summer breeze.\n\nBut time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot.\nMany a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory.\nIs it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them\nall? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain\nlonging?\n\n\n\n\n42.\n\n\nEarly in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only\nthou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our\npilgrimage to no country and to no end.\n\nIn that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would\nswell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.\n\nIs the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening\nhas come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come\nflying to their nests.\n\nWho knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last\nglimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?\n\n\n\n\n43.\n\n\nThe day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and\nentering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to\nme, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a\nfleeting moment of my life.\n\nAnd today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I\nfind they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys\nand sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.\n\nThou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and\nthe steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing\nfrom star to star.\n\n\n\n\n44.\n\n\nThis is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow\nchases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer.\n\nMessengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along\nthe road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze\nis sweet.\n\nFrom dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a\nsudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see.\n\nIn the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air\nis filling with the perfume of promise.\n\n\n\n\n45.\n\n\nHave you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.\n\nEvery moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes,\never comes.\n\nMany a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes\nhave always proclaimed, \u201cHe comes, comes, ever comes.\u201d\n\nIn the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,\ncomes, ever comes.\n\nIn the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds\nhe comes, comes, ever comes.\n\nIn sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it\nis the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.\n\n\n\n\n46.\n\n\nI know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet\nme. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.\n\nIn many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy\nmessenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.\n\nI know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of\ntremulous joy is passing through my heart.\n\nIt is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the\nair a faint smell of thy sweet presence.\n\n\n\n\n47.\n\n\nThe night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the\nmorning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied\nout. Oh friends, leave the way open to him\u2014 forbid him not.\n\nIf the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I\npray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of\nbirds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me\nsleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.\n\nAh, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish.\nAh, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his\nsmile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of\nsleep.\n\nLet him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all\nforms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his\nglance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him.\n\n\n\n\n48.\n\n\nThe morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the\nflowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was\nscattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our\nway and paid no heed.\n\nWe sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for\nbarter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We\nquickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.\n\nThe sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered\nleaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy\ndrowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself\ndown by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.\n\nMy companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and\nhurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the\ndistant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed\nthrough strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of\nthe interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but\nfound no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a\nglad humiliation\u2014in the shadow of a dim delight.\n\nThe repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my\nheart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind\nwithout struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.\n\nAt last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee\nstanding by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that\nthe path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was\nhard!\n\n\n\n\n49.\n\n\nYou came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.\n\nI was singing all alone in a corner, and the melody caught your ear.\nYou came down and stood at my cottage door.\n\nMasters are many in your hall, and songs are sung there at all hours.\nBut the simple carol of this novice struck at your love. One plaintive\nlittle strain mingled with the great music of the world, and with a\nflower for a prize you came down and stopped at my cottage door.\n\n\n\n\n50.\n\n\nI had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy\ngolden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I\nwondered who was this King of all kings!\n\nMy hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I\nstood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on\nall sides in the dust.\n\nThe chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou\ncamest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at\nlast. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say \u201cWhat\nhast thou to give to me?\u201d\n\nAh, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I\nwas confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took\nout the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.\n\nBut how great my surprise when at the day\u2019s end I emptied my bag on the\nfloor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I\nbitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.\n\n\n\n\n51.\n\n\nThe night darkened. Our day\u2019s works had been done. We thought that the\nlast guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were\nall shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said \u201cNo,\nit cannot be!\u201d\n\nIt seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but\nthe wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said,\n\u201cIt is the messenger!\u201d We laughed and said \u201cNo, it must be the wind!\u201d\n\nThere came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was\nthe distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled\nus in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in\na drowsy murmur, \u201cNo, it must be the rumbling of clouds!\u201d\n\nThe night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came \u201cWake\nup! delay not!\u201d We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with\nfear. Some said, \u201cLo, there is the king\u2019s flag!\u201d We stood up on our\nfeet and cried \u201cThere is no time for delay!\u201d\n\nThe king has come\u2014but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the\nthrone to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the\ndecorations? Someone has said, \u201cVain is this cry! Greet him with empty\nhands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!\u201d\n\nOpen the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the\nnight has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in\nthe sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered\npiece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of\na sudden our king of the fearful night.\n\n\n\n\n52.\n\n\nI thought I should ask of thee\u2014but I dared not\u2014the rose wreath thou\nhadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst\ndepart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I\nsearched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.\n\nAh me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower,\nno spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing\nas a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning\ncomes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning\nbird twitters and asks, \u201cWoman, what hast thou got?\u201d No, it is no\nflower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water\u2014it is thy dreadful\nsword.\n\nI sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no\nplace to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts\nme when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this\nhonour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.\n\nFrom now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou\nshalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my\ncompanion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to\ncut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the\nworld.\n\nFrom now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more\nshall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness\nand sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment.\nNo more doll\u2019s decorations for me!\n\n\n\n\n53.\n\n\nBeautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in\nmyriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its\ncurve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of\nVishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset.\n\nIt quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the\nfinal stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning\nup earthly sense with one fierce flash.\n\nBeautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O\nlord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold\nor think of.\n\n\n\n\n54.\n\n\nI asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When\nthou took\u2019st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where\nthe shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with\ntheir brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and\nshouted, \u201cCome with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.\u201d But I\nlanguidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.\n\nI heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they\nfell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low\u2014\u201cAh, I am a thirsty\ntraveller.\u201d I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my\njar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang\nfrom the unseen dark, and perfume of _babla_ flowers came from the bend\nof the road.\n\nI stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what\nhad I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I\ncould give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and\nenfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in\nweary notes, _neem_ leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and\nthink.\n\n\n\n\n55.\n\n\nLanguor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.\n\nHas not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour\namong thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain!\n\nAt the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my\nfriend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!\n\nWhat if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun\u2014what\nif the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst\u2014\n\nIs there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours,\nwill not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain?\n\n\n\n\n56.\n\n\nThus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast\ncome down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if\nI were not?\n\nThou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is\nthe endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking\nshape.\n\nAnd for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in\nbeauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the\nlove of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two.\n\n\n\n\n57.\n\n\nLight, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light,\nheart-sweetening light!\n\nAh, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light\nstrikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind\nruns wild, laughter passes over the earth.\n\nThe butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and\njasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.\n\nThe light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it\nscatters gems in profusion.\n\nMirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without\nmeasure. The heaven\u2019s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy\nis abroad.\n\n\n\n\n58.\n\n\nLet all the strains of joy mingle in my last song\u2014the joy that makes\nthe earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that\nsets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world,\nthe joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life\nwith laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red\nlotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust,\nand knows not a word.\n\n\n\n\n59.\n\n\nYes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart\u2014 this\ngolden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing\nacross the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my\nforehead.\n\nThe morning light has flooded my eyes\u2014this is thy message to my heart.\nThy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my\nheart has touched thy feet.\n\n\n\n\n60.\n\n\nOn the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is\nmotionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the\nseashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.\n\nThey build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With\nwithered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the\nvast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.\n\nThey know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl\nfishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children\ngather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden\ntreasures, they know not how to cast nets.\n\nThe sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea\nbeach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,\neven like a mother while rocking her baby\u2019s cradle. The sea plays with\nchildren, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.\n\nOn the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the\npathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad\nand children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great\nmeeting of children.\n\n\n\n\n61.\n\n\nThe sleep that flits on baby\u2019s eyes\u2014does anybody know from where it\ncomes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the\nfairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms,\nthere hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss\nbaby\u2019s eyes.\n\nThe smile that flickers on baby\u2019s lips when he sleeps\u2014does anybody know\nwhere it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a\ncrescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there\nthe smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning\u2014the smile\nthat flickers on baby\u2019s lips when he sleeps.\n\nThe sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby\u2019s limbs\u2014does anybody know\nwhere it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it\nlay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love\u2014the sweet,\nsoft freshness that has bloomed on baby\u2019s limbs.\n\n\n\n\n62.\n\n\nWhen I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is\nsuch a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted\nin tints\u2014when I give coloured toys to you, my child.\n\nWhen I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves,\nand why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening\nearth\u2014when I sing to make you dance.\n\nWhen I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is\nhoney in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with\nsweet juice\u2014when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.\n\nWhen I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely\nunderstand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and\nwhat delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my\nbody\u2014when I kiss you to make you smile.\n\n\n\n\n63.\n\n\nThou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me\nseats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made\na brother of the stranger.\n\nI am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I\nforget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou\nabidest.\n\nThrough birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou\nleadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life\nwho ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.\n\nWhen one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.\nOh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of\nthe one in the play of many.\n\n\n\n\n64.\n\n\nOn the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her,\n\u201cMaiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house\nis all dark and lonesome\u2014lend me your light!\u201d she raised her dark eyes\nfor a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. \u201cI have come to\nthe river,\u201d she said, \u201cto float my lamp on the stream when the daylight\nwanes in the west.\u201d I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the\ntimid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide.\n\nIn the silence of gathering night I asked her, \u201cMaiden, your lights are\nall lit\u2014then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and\nlonesome\u2014lend me your light.\u201d She raised her dark eyes on my face and\nstood for a moment doubtful. \u201cI have come,\u201d she said at last, \u201cto\ndedicate my lamp to the sky.\u201d I stood and watched her light uselessly\nburning in the void.\n\nIn the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, \u201cMaiden, what is your\nquest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and\nlonesome\u2014lend me your light.\u201d She stopped for a minute and thought and\ngazed at my face in the dark. \u201cI have brought my light,\u201d she said, \u201cto\njoin the carnival of lamps.\u201d I stood and watched her little lamp\nuselessly lost among lights.\n\n\n\n\n65.\n\n\nWhat divine drink wouldst thou have, my God, from this overflowing cup\nof my life?\n\nMy poet, is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to\nstand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal\nharmony?\n\nThy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to\nthem. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own\nentire sweetness in me.\n\n\n\n\n66.\n\n\nShe who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of\ngleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning\nlight, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song.\n\nWords have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her\nits eager arms in vain.\n\nI have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my\nheart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my\nlife.\n\nOver my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet\ndwelled alone and apart.\n\nMany a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in\ndespair.\n\nThere was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she\nremained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.\n\n\n\n\n67.\n\n\nThou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.\n\nO thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul\nwith colours and sounds and odours.\n\nThere comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand\nbearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.\n\nAnd there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds,\nthrough trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden\npitcher from the western ocean of rest.\n\nBut there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her\nflight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor\nnight, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word.\n\n\n\n\n68.\n\n\nThy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and\nstands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds\nmade of my tears and sighs and songs.\n\nWith fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of\nmisty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring\nit with hues everchanging.\n\nIt is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is\nwhy thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may\ncover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows.\n\n\n\n\n69.\n\n\nThe same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs\nthrough the world and dances in rhythmic measures.\n\nIt is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in\nnumberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves\nand flowers.\n\nIt is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of\ndeath, in ebb and in flow.\n\nI feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.\nAnd my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this\nmoment.\n\n\n\n\n70.\n\n\nIs it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be\ntossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?\n\nAll things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can\nhold them back, they rush on.\n\nKeeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and\npass away\u2014colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the\nabounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.\n\n\n\n\n71.\n\n\nThat I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus\ncasting coloured shadows on thy radiance\u2014such is thy _maya_.\n\nThou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed\nself in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me.\n\nThe poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears\nand smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams\nbreak and form. In me is thy own defeat of self.\n\nThis screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures\nwith the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in\nwondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of\nstraightness.\n\nThe great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune\nof thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the\nhiding and seeking of thee and me.\n\n\n\n\n72.\n\n\nHe it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden\ntouches.\n\nHe it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on\nthe chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.\n\nHe it is who weaves the web of this _maya_ in evanescent hues of gold\nand silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his\nfeet, at whose touch I forget myself.\n\nDays come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a\nname, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.\n\n\n\n\n73.\n\n\nDeliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of\nfreedom in a thousand bonds of delight.\n\nThou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various\ncolours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.\n\nMy world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and\nplace them before the altar of thy temple.\n\nNo, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and\nhearing and touch will bear thy delight.\n\nYes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my\ndesires ripen into fruits of love.\n\n\n\n\n74.\n\n\nThe day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go\nto the stream to fill my pitcher.\n\nThe evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls\nme out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by, the\nwind is up, the ripples are rampant in the river.\n\nI know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to\nmeet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays\nupon his lute.\n\n\n\n\n75.\n\n\nThy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee\nundiminished.\n\nThe river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and\nhamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy\nfeet.\n\nThe flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is\nto offer itself to thee.\n\nThy worship does not impoverish the world.\n\nFrom the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet\ntheir last meaning points to thee.\n\n\n\n\n76.\n\n\nDay after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to\nface. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before\nthee face to face.\n\nUnder thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I\nstand before thee face to face.\n\nIn this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with\nstruggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face.\n\nAnd when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone\nand speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.\n\n\n\n\n77.\n\n\nI know thee as my God and stand apart\u2014I do not know thee as my own and\ncome closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet\u2014I do not\ngrasp thy hand as my friend\u2019s.\n\nI stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to\nclasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.\n\nThou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide\nnot my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee.\n\nIn pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand\nby thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the\ngreat waters of life.\n\n\n\n\n78.\n\n\nWhen the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first\nsplendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang \u201cOh, the\npicture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!\u201d\n\nBut one cried of a sudden\u2014\u201cIt seems that somewhere there is a break in\nthe chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.\u201d\n\nThe golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they\ncried in dismay\u2014\u201cYes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of\nall heavens!\u201d\n\nFrom that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from\none to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy!\n\nOnly in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among\nthemselves\u2014\u201cVain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!\u201d\n\n\n\n\n79.\n\n\nIf it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel\nthat I have missed thy sight\u2014let me not forget for a moment, let me\ncarry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.\n\nAs my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow\nfull with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained\nnothing\u2014let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this\nsorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.\n\nWhen I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low\nin the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before\nme\u2014let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in\nmy dreams and in my wakeful hours.\n\nWhen my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the\nlaughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee\nto my house\u2014let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of\nthis sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.\n\n\n\n\n80.\n\n\nI am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky,\nO my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making\nme one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from\nthee.\n\nIf this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting\nemptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it\non the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.\n\nAnd again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall\nmelt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white\nmorning, in a coolness of purity transparent.\n\n\n\n\n81.\n\n\nOn many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never\nlost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own\nhands.\n\nHidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,\nbuds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.\n\nI was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had\nceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders\nof flowers.\n\n\n\n\n82.\n\n\nTime is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy\nminutes.\n\nDays and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest\nhow to wait.\n\nThy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.\n\nWe have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a\nchances. We are too poor to be late.\n\nAnd thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man\nwho claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.\n\nAt the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I\nfind that yet there is time.\n\n\n\n\n83.\n\n\nMother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of\nsorrow.\n\nThe stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but\nmine will hang upon thy breast.\n\nWealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to\nwithhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I\nbring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.\n\n\n\n\n84.\n\n\nIt is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and\ngives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.\n\nIt is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from\nstar to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness\nof July.\n\nIt is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into\nsufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and\nflows in songs through my poet\u2019s heart.\n\n\n\n\n85.\n\n\nWhen the warriors came out first from their master\u2019s hall, where had\nthey hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms?\n\nThey looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them\non the day they came out from their master\u2019s hall.\n\nWhen the warriors marched back again to their master\u2019s hall where did\nthey hide their power?\n\nThey had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was\non their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind\nthem on the day they marched back again to their master\u2019s hall.\n\n\n\n\n86.\n\n\nDeath, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and\nbrought thy call to my home.\n\nThe night is dark and my heart is fearful\u2014yet I will take up the lamp,\nopen my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands\nat my door.\n\nI will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.\n\nHe will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my\nmorning; and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my\nlast offering to thee.\n\n\n\n\n87.\n\n\nIn desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my\nroom; I find her not.\n\nMy house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.\n\nBut infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have to come to\nthy door.\n\nI stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my\neager eyes to thy face.\n\nI have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish\u2014no\nhope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.\n\nOh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest\nfullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of\nthe universe.\n\n\n\n\n88.\n\n\nDeity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of _Vina_ sing no more\nyour praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of\nworship. The air is still and silent about you.\n\nIn your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings\nthe tidings of flowers\u2014the flowers that for your worship are offered no\nmore.\n\nYour worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused.\nIn the eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust,\nhe wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.\n\nMany a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined\ntemple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.\n\nMany new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the\nholy stream of oblivion when their time is come.\n\nOnly the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless\nneglect.\n\n\n\n\n89.\n\n\nNo more noisy, loud words from me\u2014such is my master\u2019s will. Henceforth\nI deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in\nmurmurings of a song.\n\nMen hasten to the King\u2019s market. All the buyers and sellers are there.\nBut I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of\nwork.\n\nLet then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their\ntime; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.\n\nFull many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil,\nbut now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my\nheart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless\ninconsequence!\n\n\n\n\n90.\n\n\nOn the day when death will knock at thy door what wilt thou offer to\nhim?\n\nOh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life\u2014I will never\nlet him go with empty hands.\n\nAll the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the\nearnings and gleanings of my busy life will I place before him at the\nclose of my days when death will knock at my door.\n\n\n\n\n91.\n\n\nO thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, my death, come and whisper\nto me!\n\nDay after day I have kept watch for thee; for thee have I borne the\njoys and pangs of life.\n\nAll that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love have ever\nflowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine\neyes and my life will be ever thine own.\n\nThe flowers have been woven and the garland is ready for the\nbridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet\nher lord alone in the solitude of night.\n\n\n\n\n92.\n\n\nI know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be\nlost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain\nover my eyes.\n\nYet stars will watch at night, and morning rise as before, and hours\nheave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.\n\nWhen I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments\nbreaks and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless\ntreasures. Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives.\n\nThings that I longed for in vain and things that I got\u2014let them pass.\nLet me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked.\n\n\n\n\n93.\n\n\nI have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers! I bow to you all and\ntake my departure.\n\nHere I give back the keys of my door\u2014and I give up all claims to my\nhouse. I only ask for last kind words from you.\n\nWe were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now\nthe day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A\nsummons has come and I am ready for my journey.\n\n\n\n\n94.\n\n\nAt this time of my parting, wish me good luck, my friends! The sky is\nflushed with the dawn and my path lies beautiful.\n\nAsk not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with\nempty hands and expectant heart.\n\nI shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of\nthe traveller, and though there are dangers on the way I have no fear\nin mind.\n\nThe evening star will come out when my voyage is done and the plaintive\nnotes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the King\u2019s gateway.\n\n\n\n\n95.\n\n\nI was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of\nthis life.\n\nWhat was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a\nbud in the forest at midnight!\n\nWhen in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I\nwas no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and\nform had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother.\n\nEven so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And\nbecause I love this life, I know I shall love death as well.\n\nThe child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it\naway, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation.\n\n\n\n\n96.\n\n\nWhen I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen\nis unsurpassable.\n\nI have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the\nocean of light, and thus am I blessed\u2014let this be my parting word.\n\nIn this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play and here have I\ncaught sight of him that is formless.\n\nMy whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond\ntouch; and if the end comes here, let it come\u2014let this be my parting\nword.\n\n\n\n\n97.\n\n\nWhen my play was with thee I never questioned who thou wert. I knew nor\nshyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.\n\nIn the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own\ncomrade and lead me running from glade to glade.\n\nOn those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest\nto me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their\ncadence.\n\nNow, when the playtime is over, what is this sudden sight that is come\nupon me? The world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all\nits silent stars.\n\n\n\n\n98.\n\n\nI will deck thee with trophies, garlands of my defeat. It is never in\nmy power to escape unconquered.\n\nI surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its\nbonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like\na hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears.\n\nI surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for\never and the secret recess of its honey will be bared.\n\nFrom the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence.\nNothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I\nreceive at thy feet.\n\n\n\n\n99.\n\n\nWhen I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take\nit. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle.\n\nThen take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my\nheart, and think it your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you\nare placed.\n\nThese my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying\nto light them I forget all else again and again.\n\nBut I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on\nthe floor; and whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and\ntake thy seat here.\n\n\n\n\n100.\n\n\nI dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the\nperfect pearl of the formless.\n\nNo more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten\nboat. The days are long passed when my sport was to be tossed on waves.\n\nAnd now I am eager to die into the deathless.\n\nInto the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the\nmusic of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life.\n\nI shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its\nlast utterance, lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent.\n\n\n\n\n101.\n\n\nEver in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led\nme from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and\ntouching my world.\n\nIt was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learnt; they\nshowed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the\nhorizon of my heart.\n\nThey guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of\npleasure and pain, and, at last, to what palace gate have they brought\nme in the evening at the end of my journey?\n\n\n\n\n102.\n\n\nI boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all\nworks of mine. They come and ask me, \u201cWho is he?\u201d I know not how to\nanswer them. I say, \u201cIndeed, I cannot tell.\u201d They blame me and they go\naway in scorn. And you sit there smiling.\n\nI put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my\nheart. They come and ask me, \u201cTell me all your meanings.\u201d I know not\nhow to answer them. I say, \u201cAh, who knows what they mean!\u201d They smile\nand go away in utter scorn. And you sit there smiling.\n\n\n\n\n103.\n\n\nIn one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and\ntouch this world at thy feet.\n\nLike a rain-cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers\nlet all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee.\n\nLet all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single\ncurrent and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee.\n\nLike a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their\nmountain nests let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in\none salutation to thee.","title":"Gitanjali","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":14517}