Gitanjali; and, Fruit-gathering

Maud Harvey

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY

WILLIAM H. DONNER
COLLECTION

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GITANJALI AND
FRUIT-GATHERING

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Painted by Xandalal Bose

CITANJALI AND
FRUIT- GATHERING

BY SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY NANDALAL
BOSE.SURENDRANATH KAR. ABANIN

DRANATH TAGORE.ANDNOBENDRAN&IH
TACORE

THE MACMMAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1916,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

JfXW ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

COPTRIOHT, 1918,

BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1918.

OCT 21958

_^s^

rJTf J^,

Nortooob

J. 8. Gushing Co. — Berwick A Smith Co.
Norwood, M«M., U.S.A.

TO

WILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN

INTRODUCTION

A FEW days ago I said to a distin-
guished 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

vii

viii GITANJALI

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 trans-
lations from Petrarch or from Dante,
would have found no books to answer
his questions, but would have ques-
tioned some Florentine banker or Lom-
bard 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 Bur-
mah wherever Bengali is spoken. He
was already famous at nineteen when

INTRODUCTION ix

he wrote his first novel; and plays,
written 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 per-
haps, 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 ex-
press what I owed at seventeen to his
love poetry. After that his art grew
deeper, it became religious and philo-
sophical; all the aspirations of man-
kind are in his hymns. He is the first
among our saints who has not refused
to live, but has spoken but of Life it-
self, 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

x GITANJALI

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, people even stand-
ing in the windows, but ' the streets
were all but impassable because of the
people."

Other Indians came to see me and
then* 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

INTRODUCTION xi

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. "To-
day," he said, "there are Gogonen-
dranath 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 illustri-
ous. The other day the curator of a

xii GITANJALI

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 an-
swered. "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 lif e 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,"

INTRODUCTION xiii

he replied, "we too have our propagan-
dist writing. In the villages they recite
long mythological poems adapted from
the Sanscrit in the Middle Ages, and
they often insert passages telling the
people that they must do their duties.

n

I have carried the manuscript of
these translations about with me for
days, reading it in railway trains, or
on the tops of omnibuses and in restaur-
ants, 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 life long. The work of a
supreme culture, they yet appear as

xiv GITANJALI

much the growth of the common soil
as the grass and the rushes. A tradi-
tion, 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
though 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

INTRODUCTION xv

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 about by students at the
university to be laid aside when the
work of life begins, but as the genera-
tions pass, travellers will hum them
on the highway and men rowing upon
rivers. Lovers, while they await one
another, shall find, in murmuring them,
this love of God a magic gulf wherein
their own more bitter passion may
bathe and renew its youth. At every

xvi GITANJALI

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 red-brown
clothes that he wears that dust may
not show upon him, the girl searching
hi 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 parching
heat, are images of the moods of that
heart hi union or in separation; and
a man sitting in a boat upon a river
playing upon a lute, like one of those
figures full of mysterious meaning in
a Chinese picture, is God Himself.
A whole people, a whole civilization,

INTRODUCTION xvii

immeasurably strange to us, seems to
have been taken up into this imagina-
tion; and yet we are not moved be-
cause 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 struc-
ture 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 weari-
ness or exaltation to consider a volun-
tary 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 seem one, forsake it harshly
and rudely? What have we in common

xviii GITANJALI

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 Revela-
tion? We would, if we might, find,
as in this book, words full of courtesy.
"I have got my leave. Bid me fare-
well, 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

INTRODUCTION xix

fathoms all. We had not known that
we loved God, hardly it may be that
we believed in Him; yet looking back-
ward upon our life we discover, in our
exploration of the pathways of woods,
in our delight in the lonely places of
hills, in that mysterious claim that we
have made, unavailingly, on the women
that we have loved, the emotion that
created this insidious sweetness. "En-
tering 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 fleet-
ing 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 sun-
light, and we go for a like voice to St.
Francis and to William Blake who
have seemed so alien in our violent
history.

GITANJALI

m

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 con-
tent to discover the soul and surrender
himself to its spontaneity. He often
seems to contrast his life with that of
those who have lived 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, draw-
ing my skirt over my face, and when
they ask me, what it is I want, I drop

INTRODUCTION xxi

my eyes and answer them not." At
another time, remembering how his life
had once a different shape, he will say,
"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 inconse-
quence." 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, remember-
ing 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

xxii GITANJALI

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, "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 sea-
shore 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 1012.

CONTENTS

PAOM

GlTANJALI . . . • • • 1-95

FRUIT-GATHERING 97-221

xxiii

ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR

FACING PAOB

Frontispiece.

The rain has held back for days .... 30

On the slope of the desolate river .... 58

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation . . 68

This autumn morning is tired with excess of light . 126

The bird of the morning sings 128

The pain was great when the strings were being

tuned, my master ! 166

O the waves, the sky-devouring waves . . .196

ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK AND
WHITE

KM IV, PAOB

My Song has put off her adornments ... 6

Leave this chanting and singing .... 8

Here is thy footstool 10

The song that I came to sing 12

Art thou abroad on this stormy night . . .18

Prisoners, tell me, who was it that bound you . . 24

Have you not heard his silent steps .... 86

I asked nothing from thee 48

When I bring to you coloured toys .... 52

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well . 62

I am like a remnant of a cloud .... 74

When I go from hence let this be my parting word . 88

Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs . 92
Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not

also for withered leaves and faded flowers ? .100
I brought out my earthen lamp . . . .118

Make me thy poet, O Night, Veiled Night . . 122
A smile of mirth spread over the sky . . .134

The trumpet lies in the dust 142

The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter,

bursts in 152

I cling to this living raft, my body .... 156

She is still a child 182

Maybe there is one house in this city . . . 190
The spring with its leaves and flowers has come into

my body 200

xxvii

GITANJALI

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.

2 GITANJALI

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 spread-
ing wing of my song thy feet which I
could never aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing I for-
get myself and call thee friend who art
my lord.

GITANJALI 3

3

I KNOW not how thou singest, my
master! I ever listen in silent amaze-
ment.

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 end-
less meshes of thy music, my master!

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

4 GITANJALI

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.

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.

To-day the summer has come at my
window with its sighs and murmurs;

GITANJALI 5

and the bees are plying their minstrelsy
at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to
face with thee, and to sing dedication
of life in this silent and overflowing
leisure.

6

PLUCK this little flower and take it,
delay not! I fear lest it droop and
drop into the dust.

It may not find a place in thy gar-
land, 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.

6 GITANJALI

MY song has put off her adornments.
She has no pride of dress and decora-
tion. 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.

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

Drawn by Nandalal BOM

My song has put off her adornments

GITANJALI 7

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.

9

O FOOL, to try to carry thyself upon
thy own shoulders ! O beggar, to come
to 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.

8 GITANJALI

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 low-
liest, 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.

11

LEAVE this chanting and singing and
telling of beads! Whom dost thou
worship in this lonely dark corner of a

l\iinted by Surendranath Kar

Here is thy footstool

GITANJALI 9

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 path-
maker is breaking stones. He is with
them in sun and in shower, and his
garment is covered with dust. Put off
thy holy mantle and even like him come
down on the dusty soil !

Deliverance? Where is this deliver-
ance 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.

10 GITANJALI

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 leav-
ing 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!"

GITANJALI 11

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 be-
fore my house.

The liveK'Tg 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.

12 GITANJALI

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 refus-
ing me ever and anon, saving me from
perils of weak, uncertain desire.

Drawn by Nandalal Bone

The Song that I came to sing

GITANJALI 13

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 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.

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.

14 GITANJALI

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

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 heed-
less; I doubt not they are right hi 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. .

GITANJALI 15

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 wail-
ing with the restless wind.

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

16 GITANJALI

with starry vigil and its head bent low
with patience.

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

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

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

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

That vague sweetness made my heart
ache with longing and it seemed to me

GITANJALI 17

that it 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.

ri

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?

18 GITANJALI

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

To-day 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.

23

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

I have no sleep to-night. Ever and

Painted by \uinlnlnl Hose

Art thou abroad on this stormy night?

GITANJALI 19

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?

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 droop-
ing lotus at dusk.

From the traveller, whose sack of
provisions is empty before the voyage
is ended, whose garment is torn and
dust-laden, whose strength is ex-

20 GITANJALI

hausted, remove shame and poverty,
and renew his life like a flower under
the cover of thy kindly night.

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.

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.

GITANJALI 21

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

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 thy 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.

22 GITANJALI

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 hi the dark. Kindle the lamp
of love with thy life.

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,

GITANJALI 23

my shame secret and heavy; yet when
I come to ask for my good, I quake in
fear lest my prayer be granted.

29

HE whom I enclose with my name is
weeping hi 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.

30

I CAME out alone on my way to my
tryst. But who is this that follows me
in the silent dark?

34 GITANJALI

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.

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."

/'<!////«•«/ />// AfHinintlninath Tagore

Prisoners, tell me, who was it that bound you?

GITANJALI 25

"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."

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.

26 GITANJALI

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.

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 of 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.

34

LET only that little be left of me
whereby I may name thee my all.

GITANJALI 27

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.

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;

28 GITANJALI

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.

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.

GITANJALI 29

And give me the strength to surrender
my strength to thy will with love.

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.

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.

30 GITANJALI

As the night keeps hidden in its
gloom the petition for light, even thus
hi the depth of my unconsciousness
rings the cry — I want thee, only thee.

As the storm still seeks its end hi
peace when it strikes against peace
with all its might, even thus my rebel-
lion strikes against thy love and still its
cry is — I want thee, only thee.

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 be-
yond, come to me, my lord of silence,
with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits
crouched, shut up in a corner, break

I

IN

K=

I ^

GITANJALI 31

open the door, my king, and come with
the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with
delusion and dust, 0 thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and
thy thunder.

40

THE rain has held back for days and
days, my God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked — not the thin-
nest 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

32 GITANJALI

above like the tearful look of the mother
on the day of the father's wrath.

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.

GITANJALI 33

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

34 GITANJALI

who would wait and weep and wear out
my heart in vain longing?

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?

GITANJALI 35

43

THE day was when I did not keep my-
self 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 to-day 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.

36 GITANJALI

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 un-
known 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.

45

HAVE you not heard his silent, steps?
He comes, comes, ever comes.

by Almnindrtinath Tagore

Have you not heard his silent steps?

GITANJALI 37

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.

46

I KNOW not from what distant time
thou art ever coming nearer to meet

38 GITANJALI

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 why to-day my We 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.

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 sound of his steps does not
wake me, do not try to rouse me, I

GITANJALI 39

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 undis-
turbed 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 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.

48

THE morning sea of silence broke into
ripples of bird songs; and the flowers

40 GITANJALI

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

GITANJALI 41

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 tbee was
hard!

4S GITANJALI

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.

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!

GITANJALI 43

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 earnest
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 grain of gold
among the poor heap. I bitterly wept
and wished that I had had the heart to
give thee my all.

44 GITANJALI

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!"

GITANJALI 45

•n

The night was still dark when the
dru m 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? Some one 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

46 GITANJALI

of a sudden our king of the fearful
night.

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 spices2 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,

GITANJALI 47

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
where 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

48 GITANJALI

hast given me thy sword for adornment.
No more doll's decorations for me!

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 to think of.

Painted by \andalal Base

I asked nothing from thee

GITANJALI 49

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 earnest.
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

50 GITANJALI

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.

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

GITANJALI 51

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?

56

THUS it is that thy joy in me is so
full. Thus it is that thou hast come
down to me. 0 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

52 GITANJALI

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.

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.

•HT

Painted by \andalal Bo»e

When I bring to you coloured toys

GITANJALI 53

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.

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 broth-
ers, 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.

59

YES, I know, this is nothing but thy
love,0 beloved of my heart — this golden

54 GITANJALI

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.

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

GITANJALI 55

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 peb-
bles 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 end-
less worlds is the great meeting of
children.

56 GITANJALI

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 where, 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

GITANJALI 57

lay pervading her heart in tender and
silent mystery of love — the sweet, soft
freshness that has bloomed on baby's
limbs.

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 know 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 flower and why
fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice
— when I bring sweet things to your
greedy hands.

58 GITANJALI

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

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

i Siinntlninath l\

On the slope of the desolate river

GITANJALI 59

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 the many.

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.

60 GITANJALI

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 lone-
some,—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
asked 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.

GITANJALI 61

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.

66

SHE wlio 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.

6£ GITANJALI

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.

67

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

O thou beautiful, there in the nest it

-jflriHlifctir-

Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well

GITANJALI 63

is thy love that encloses the soul with
colours and sounds and odours.

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

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

But there, where spreads the infinite
sky for the soul to take her flight in,
reigns the stainless white radiance.
There is no day nor night, nor form nor
colour, and never, never a word.

THY sunbeam comes upon this earth of
mine with arms outstretched and stands
at my door the livelong day to carry

64 GITANJALI

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
twful white light with its pathetic
3hadows.

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

GITANJALI 65

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.

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 abound-

66 GITANJALI

ing joy that scatters and gives up and
dies every moment.

71

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

Thou settest a barrier in thine own
being and then callest thy severed self
in myriad notes. This thy self-separa-
tion 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.

GITANJALI 67

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 hid-
ing and seeking of thee and me.

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

He it is who puts his enchantment
upon these eyes and joyfully plays on
the chords of my heart in varied ca-
dence 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

68 GITANJALI

name, in many a guise, in many a
rapture of joy and of sorrow.

73

DELIVERANCE is not for me in renuncia-
tion. 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.

Painted by Abanindranath Tagore

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation

GITANJALI 69

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.

75

THY gifts to us mortals fulfil all our
needs and yet run back to thee un-
diminished.

The river has its everyday work to
do and hastens through fields and

70 GITANJALI

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.

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,

GITANJALI 71

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?

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 shar-
ing my all with thee.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not

72 GITANJALI

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.

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 perfec-
tion! 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 un-
ceasing for her, and the cry goes on

GITANJALI 73

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!"

79

IF it is not my portion to meet thee in
this my 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

74 GITANJALI

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 for 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 laugh-
ter 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.

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

GITANJALI 75

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.

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.

76 GITANJALI

In the morning I woke up and found
my garden full with wonders of flowers.

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 our
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 be shut; but I find
that yet there is time.

GITANJALI 77

\

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.

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 night from star to
star and becomes lyric among rustling
leaves in rainy darkness of July.

78 GITANJALI

It is this overspreading pain that
deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joys in human homes;
and this it is that ever melts and flows
in songs through my poet's heart.

85

WHEN the warriors came out first from
their master's hall, where had they hid
their power? Where were their ar-
mour 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

GITANJALI 79

on the day they marched back again to
their master's hall.

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 with folded hands,
and with tears. 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 hi my desolate home only my
forlorn self will remain as my last
offering to thee.

80 GITANJALI

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 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 full-
ness. Let me for once feel that lost
sweet touch in the allness of the uni-
verse.

GITANJALI 81

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 min-
gle 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

82 GITANJALI

the holy stream of oblivion when their
time is come.

Only the deity of the ruined temple
remains unworshipped in deathless
neglect.

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

GITANJALI 83

of the empty days to draw my heart on
to him; and I know not why is this
sudden call to what useless incon-
sequence!

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.

91

O THOU the last fulfilment of life, Death,
my death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day have I kept watch for

84 GITANJALI

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 to-
wards 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.

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.

GITANJALI 85

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.

98

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

86 GITANJALI

that lit my dark corner is out. A
summons has come and I am ready
for my journey.

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 my 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.

GITANJALI 87

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 in-
scrutable 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.

88 GITANJAU

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.

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

: < /

Drawn by Aril Kumar llaldar

When I go from hence let this be my parting word

GITANJALI 89

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.

98

I WILL deck thee with trophies, garlands
of my defeat. It is never hi my power
to escape unconquered.

I surely know my pride will go to the
wall, my life will burst its bonds in ex-
ceeding 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

90 GITANJALI

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 re-
ceive at thy feet.

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.

GITANJALI 91

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.

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 fathom-
less 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 for ever,
and, when it has sobbed out its last

92 GITANJALI

utterance, lay down my silent harp at
the feet of the silent.

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?

// .\l><tnintlrnn(ith

Kvrr in my life h;i\<> I sought thee with my songs

GITANJALI 93

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.

94 GITANJALI

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 cur-
rent 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.

THESE translations are of poems con-
tained in three books — Naiv4dya,
Kheya, and Gitanjali— to be had at
the Indian Publishing House, 22
Corn wall is Street, Calcutta; and of
a few poems which have appeared
only in periodicals.

95

FRUIT-GATHERING

BID me and I shall gather my fruits to
bring them in full baskets into your
courtyard, though some are lost and
some not ripe.

For the season grows heavy with its
fulness, and there is a plaintive shep-
herd's pipe in the shade.

Bid me and I shall set sail on the
river.

The March wind is fretful, fretting
the languid waves into murmurs.

The garden has yielded its all, and
in the weary hour of evening the call
comes from your house on the shore in
the sunset.

100 FRUIT-GATHERING

n

MY life when young was like a flower —
a flower that loosens a petal or two
from her abundance and never feels
the loss when the spring breeze comes
to beg at her door.

Now at the end of youth my life is
like a fruit, having nothing to spare,
and waiting to offer herself completely
with her full burden of sweetness.

. '

Painted by Abanindranalh Tagore

Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not
also for withered leaves and faded flowers?

FRUIT-GATHERING 101

m

Is summer's festival only for fresh
blossoms and not also for withered
leaves and faded flowers?

Is the song of the sea in tune only
with the rising waves?

Does it not also sing with the waves
that fall?

Jewels are woven into the carpet
where stands my king, but there are
patient clods waiting to be touched by
his feet.

Few are the wise and the great who
sit by my Master, but he has taken the
foolish in his arms and made me his
servant for ever.

102 FRUIT-GATHERING

IV

I WOKE and found his letter with the
morning.

I do not know what it says, for I
cannot read.

I shall leave the wise man alone with
his books, I shall not trouble him, for
who knows if he can read what the
letter says.

Let me hold it to my forehead and
press it to my heart.

When the night grows still and stars
come out one by one I will spread it
on my lap and stay silent.

The rustling leaves will read it aloud
to me, the rushing stream will chant it,
and the seven wise stars will sing it to
me from the sky.

FRUIT-GATHERING 103

I cannot find what I seek, I cannot
understand what I would learn; but
this unread letter has lightened my
burdens and turned my thoughts into
songs.

104 FRUIT-GATHERING

A HANDFUL of dust could hide your
signal when I did not know its mean-
ing.

Now that I am wiser I read it in all
that hid it before.

It is painted in petals of flowers;
waves flash it from their foam; hills
hold it high on their summits.

I had my face turned from you,
therefore I read the letters awry and
knew not their meaning.

FRUIT-GATHERING 105

VI

WHERE roads are made I lose my
way.

In the wide water, in the blue sky
there is no line of a track.

The pathway is hidden by the birds'
wings, by the star-fires, by the flowers
of the wayfaring seasons.

And I ask my heart if its blood
carries the wisdom of the unseen way.

106 FRUIT-GATHERING

VII

ALAS, I cannot stay in the house, and
home has become no home to me, for
the eternal Stranger calls, he is going
along the road.

The sound of his footfall knocks at
my breast; it pains me!

The wind is up, the sea is moaning.

I leave all my cares and doubts
to follow the homeless tide, for the
Stranger calls me, he is going along
the road.

FRUIT-GATHERING 107

vm

BE ready to launch forth, my heart!
and let those linger who must.

For your name has been called in the
morning sky.

Wait for none!

The desire of the bud is for the night
and dew, but the blown flower cries for
the freedom of light.

Burst your sheath, my heart, and
come forth!

108 FRUIT-GATHERING

IX

WHEN I lingered among my hoarded
treasure I felt like a worm that feeds
in the dark upon the fruit where it
was born.

I leave this prison of decay.

I care not to haunt the mouldy still-
ness, for I go in search of everlasting
youth; I throw away all that is not
one with my life nor as light as my
laughter.

I run through time and, O my
heart, in your chariot dances the poet
who sings while he wanders.

FRUIT-GATHERING 109

You took my hand and drew me to
your side, made me sit on the high seat
before all men, till I became timid,
unable to stir and walk my own way;
doubting and debating at every step
lest I should tread upon any thorn of
their disfavour.

I am freed at last!

The blow has come, the drum of
insult sounded, my seat is laid low in
the dust.

My paths are open before me.

My wings are full of the desire of
the sky.

I go to join the shooting stars of
midnight, to plunge into the profound
shadow.

1 10 FRUIT-GATHERING

I am like the storm-driven cloud of
summer that, having cast off its crown
of gold, hangs as a sword the thunder-
bolt upon a chain of lightning.

In desperate joy I run upon the
dusty path of the despised; I draw
near to your final welcome.

The child finds its mother when it
leaves her womb.

When I am parted from you, thrown
out from your household, I am free to
see your face.

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 1 1

XI

IT decks me only to mock me, this
jewelled chain of mine.

It bruises me when on my neck, it
strangles me when I struggle to tear
it off.

It grips my throat, it chokes my
singing.

Could I but offer it to your hand,
my Lord, I would be saved.

Take it from me, and in exchange
bind me to you with a garland, for I
am ashamed to stand before you with
this jewelled chain on my neck.

1 12 FRUIT-GATHERING

xn

FAR below flowed the Jumna, swift
and clear, above frowned the jutting
bank.

Hills dark with the woods and
scarred with the torrents were gathered
around.

Govinda, the great Sikh teacher,
sat on the rock reading scriptures,
when Raghunath, his disciple, proud
of his wealth, came and bowed to him
and said, "I have brought my poor
present unworthy of your acceptance."

Thus saying he displayed before the
teacher a pair of gold bangles wrought
with costly stones.

The master took up one of them,

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 13

twirling it round his finger, and the
diamonds darted shafts of light.

Suddenly it slipped from his hand
and rolled down the bank into the
water.

"Alas," screamed Raghunath, and
jumped into the stream.

The teacher set his eyes upon his
book, and the water held and hid what
it stole and went its way.

The daylight faded when Raghunath
came back to the teacher tired and
dripping.

He panted and said, "I can still get
it back if you show me where it fell."

The teacher took up the remaining
bangle and throwing it into the water
said, "It is there."

114 FRUIT-GATHERING

xm

To move is to meet you every moment,
Fellow-traveller !

It is to sing to the falling of your
feet.

He whom your breath touches does
not glide by the shelter of the bank.

He spreads a reckless sail to the
wind and rides the turbulent water.

He who throws his doors open and
steps onward receives your greeting.

He does not stay to count his gain
or to mourn his loss; his heart beats
the drum for his march, for that is
to march with you every step,

Fellow-traveller !

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 15

XIV

MY portion of the best in this world
will come from your hands: such was
your promise.

Therefore your light glistens in my
tears.

I fear to be led by others lest I miss
you waiting in some road corner to
be my guide.

I walk my own wilful way till my
very folly tempts you to my door.

For I have your promise that my
portion of the best in this world will
come from your hands.

116 FRUIT-GATHERING

XV

YOUR speech is simple, my Master
but not theirs who talk of you.

I understand the voice of your stars
and the silence of your trees.

I know that my heart would open
like a flower; that my life has filled
itself at a hidden fountain.

Your songs, like birds from the
lonely land of snow, are winging to
build their nests in my heart against
the warmth of its April, and I am
content to wait for the merry season.

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 17

XVI

THEY knew the way and went to seek
you along the narrow lane, but I
wandered abroad into the night for I
was ignorant.

I was not schooled enough to be
afraid of you in the dark, therefore
I came upon your doorstep unaware.

The wise rebuked me and bade me
be gone, for I had not come by the
lane.

I turned away in doubt, but you
held me fast, and their scolding be-
came louder every day.

118 FRUIT-GATHERING

xvn

I BROUGHT out my earthen lamp from
my house and cried, "Come, children,
I will light your path!"

The night was still dark when I re-
turned, leaving the road to its silence,
crying, "Light me, O Fire! for my
earthen lamp lies broken in the dust! "

Painted bij Almnintlranath Tagore

I brought out my earthen lamp

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 19

xvm

No: it is not yours to open buds into
blossoms.

Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond
your power to make it blossom.

Your touch soils it, you tear its
petals to pieces and strew them in the
dust.

But no colours appear, and no per-
fume.

Ah! it is not for you to open the
bud into a blossom.

He who can open the bud does it so
simply.

He gives it a glance, and the life-sap
stirs through its veins.

At his breath the flower spreads its
wings and flutters in the wind.

120 FRUIT-GATHERING

Colours flush out like heart-longings,
the perfume betrays a sweet secret.

He who can open the bud does it so
simply.

FRUIT-GATHERING 1 > 1

XIX

SUDAS, the gardener, plucked from
his tank the last lotus left by the ravage
of winter and went to sell it to the long
at the palace gate.

There he met a traveller who said to
him, "Ask your price for the last lotus,
-I shall offer it to Lord Buddha."

Sudas said, "If you pay one golden
mdshd it will be yours."

The traveller paid it.

At that moment the king came out
and he wished to buy the flower, for
he was on his way to see Lord Buddha,
and he thought, "It would be a fine
thing to lay at his feet the lotus that
bloomed in winter."

When the gardener said he had been

FRUIT-GATHERING

offered a golden mdshd the king offered
him ten, but the traveller doubled the
price.

The gardener, being greedy, imag-
ined a greater gain from him for whose
sake they were bidding. He bowed
and said, "I cannot sell this lotus."

In the hushed shade of the mango
grove beyond the city wall Sudas stood
before Lord Buddha, on whose lips sat
the silence of love and whose eyes
beamed peace like the morning star
of the dew-washed autumn.

Sudas looked in his face and put the
lotus at his feet and bowed his head to
the dust.

Buddha smiled and asked, "What is
your wish, my son?"

Sudas cried, "The least touch of your
feet."

Painted by \andalal Rose

Make me thy poet, O Night, Veiled Night

FRUIT-GATHERING 123

XX

MAKE me thy poet, O Night, veiled
Night!

There are some who have sat speech-
less for ages in thy shadow; let me
utter their songs.

Take me up on thy chariot without
wheels, running noiselessly from world
to world, thou queen in the palace of
time, thou darkly beautiful!

Many a questioning mind has
stealthily entered thy courtyard and
roamed through thy lampless house
seeking for answers.

From many a heart, pierced with
the arrow of joy from the hands of the
Unknown, have burst forth glad

124 FRUIT-GATHERING

chants, shaking the darkness to its
foundation.

Those wakeful souls gaze in the
starlight in wonder at the treasure they
have suddenly found.

Make me their poet, O Night, the
poet of thy fathomless silence.

FRUIT-GATHERING 125

XXI

I WILL meet one day the Life within
me, the joy that hides in my life, though
the days perplex my path with their
idle dust.

I have known it in glimpses, and its
fitful breath has come upon me, making
my thoughts fragrant for a while.

I will meet one day the Joy without
me that dwells behind the screen of
light — and will stand in the overflow-
ing solitude where all things are seen
as by their creator.

126 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXII

THIS autumn morning is tired with ex-
cess of light, and if your songs grow
fitful and languid give me your flute
awhile.

I shall but play with it as the whim
takes me, — now take it on my lap, now
touch it with my lips, now keep it by
my side on the grass.

But hi the solemn evening stillness
I shall gather flowers, to deck it with
wreaths, I shall fill it with fragrance; I
shall worship it with the lighted lamp.

Then at night I shall come to you
and give you back your flute.

You will play on it the music of mid-
night when the lonely crescent moon
wanders among the stars.

Paintfd by Abanindranath Tagore

'I'll is autumn morning is tired with excess of light

FRUIT-GATHERING 127

xxm

THE poet's mind floats and dances on
the waves of life amidst the voices of
wind and water.

Now when the sun has set and the
darkened sky draws upon the sea
like drooping lashes upon a weary eye
it is time to take away his pen, and
let his thoughts sink into the bottom
of the deep amid the eternal secret of
that silence.

128 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXIV

THE night is dark and your slumber
is deep in the hush of my being.

Wake, O Pain of Love, for I know
not how to open the door, and I stand
outside.

The hours wait, the stars watch, the
wind is still, the silence is heavy in my
heart.

Wake, Love, wake! brim my empty
cup, and with a breath of song ruffle the
night.

FRUIT-GATHERING 129

XXV

THE bird of the morning sings.

Whence has he word of the morning
before the morning breaks, and when
the dragon night still holds the sky in
its cold black coils?

Tell me, bird of the morning, how,
through the twofold night of the sky
and the leaves, he found his way into
your dream, the messenger out of the
east?

The world did not believe you when
you cried, "The sun is on his way, the
night is no more."

O sleeper, awake!

Bare your forehead, waiting for the
first blessing of light, and sing with the
bird of the morning in glad faith.

130 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXVI

THE beggar in me lifted his lean hands
to the starless sky and cried into night's
ear with his hungry voice.

His prayers were to the blind Dark-
ness who lay like a fallen god in a
desolate heaven of lost hopes.

The cry of desire eddied round a
chasm of despair, a wailing bird cir-
cling its empty nest.

But when morning dropped anchor
at the rim of the East, the beggar in
me leapt and cried:

"Blessed am I that the deaf night
denied me — that its coffer was empty."

He cried, "O Life, O Light, you are
precious! and precious is the joy that
at last has known you!"

FRUIT-GATHERING 131

XXVI

SANATAN was telling his beads by the
Ganges when a Brahmin in rags came
to him and said, "Help me, I am

poor!"

"My alms-bowl is all that is my
own," said Sanatan, "I have given
away everything I had."

"But my lord Shiva came to me in
my dreams," said the Brahmin, "and
counselled me to come to you."

Sanatan suddenly remembered he
had picked up a stone without price
among the pebbles on the river-bank,
and thinking that some one might need
it hid it in the sands.

He pointed out the spot to the
Brahmin, who wondering dug up the
stone.

13* FRUIT-GATHERING

The Brahmin sat on the earth and
mused alone till the sun went down
behind the trees, and cowherds went
home with their cattle.

Then he rose and came slowly to
Sanatan and said, "Master, give me
the least fraction of the wealth that
disdains all the wealth of the world."

And he threw the precious stone
into the water.

FRUIT-GATHERING 133

xxvm

TIME after time I came to your gate
with raised hands, asking for more and
yet more.

You gave and gave, now in slow
measure, now in sudden excess.

I took some, and some things I let
drop; some lay heavy on my hands;
some I made into playthings and broke
them when tired; till the wrecks and
the hoard of your gifts grew immense,
hiding you, and the ceaseless expecta-
tion wore my heart out.

Take, oh take — has now become my
cry.

Shatter all from this beggar's bowl:
put out this lamp of the importunate
watcher: hold my hands, raise me from
the still-gathering heap of your gifts
into the bare infinity of your uncrowded
presence.

134 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXIX

You have set me among those who are
defeated.

I know it is not for me to win, nor
to leave the game.

I shall plunge into the pool although
but to sink to the bottom.

I shall play the game of my undoing.

I shall stake all I have and when I
lose my last penny I shall stake myself,
and then I think I shall have won
through my utter defeat.

Painted hy Wobrndranath Tagore

A smile of mirth spread over the

FRUIT-GATHERING 135

XXX

A SMILE of mirth spread over the sky
when you dressed my heart in rags and
sent her forth into the road to beg.

She went from door to door, and
many a time when her bowl was nearly
full she was robbed.

At the end of the weary day she
came to your palace gate holding up
her pitiful bowl, and you came and
took her hand and seated her beside
you on your throne.

136 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXXI

"WHO among you will take up the
duty of feeding the hungry?" Lord
Buddha asked his followers when fam-
ine raged at Shravasti.

Ratnakar, the banker, hung his head
and said, "Much more is needed than
all my wealth to feed the hungry/'

Jaysen, the chief of the King's army,
said, "I would gladly give my life's
blood, but there is not enough food in
my house."

Dharmapal, who owned broad acres
of land, said with a sigh, "The drought
demon has sucked my fields dry. I
know not how to pay King's dues."

Then rose Supriya, the mendicant's
daughter.

FRUIT-GATHERING 137

She bowed to all and meekly said,
"I will feed the hungry."

"How!" they cried in surprise.
"How can you hope to fulfil that
vow?"

"I am the poorest of you all," said
Supriya, "that is my strength. I have
my coffer and my store at each of your
houses."

138 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXXII

MY king was unknown to me, there-
fore when he claimed his tribute I was
bold to think I would hide myself
leaving my debts unpaid.

I fled and fled behind my day's work
and my night's dreams.

But his claims followed me at every
breath I drew.

Thus I came to know that I am
known to him and no place left which
is mine.

Now I wish to lay my all before his
feet, and gain the right to my place in
his kingdom.

FRUIT-GATHERING 139

xxxm

WHEN I thought I would mould you,
an image from my life for men to wor-
ship, I brought my dust and desires
and all my coloured delusions and
dreams.

When I asked you to mould with my
life an image from your heart for you
to love, you brought your fire and
force, and truth, loveliness and peace.

140 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXXIV

"SiRE," announced the servant to the
King, "the saint Narottam has never
deigned to enter your royal temple.

" He is singing God's praise under the
trees by the open road. The temple is
empty of worshippers.

"They flock round him like bees
round the white lotus, leaving the
golden jar of honey unheeded."

The King, vexed at heart, went to the
spot where Narottam sat on the grass.

He asked him, "Father, why leave
my temple of the golden dome and sit
on the dust outside to preach God's
love?"

"Because God is not there in your
temple," said Narottam.

FRUIT-GATHERING 141

The King frowned and said, "Do
you know, twenty millions of gold
went to the making of that marvel of
art, and it was consecrated to God with
costly rites?"

"Yes, I know it," answered Narot-
tam. "It was in that year when
thousands of your people whose houses
had been burned stood vainly asking
for help at your door.

"And God said, 'The poor creature
who can give no shelter to his brothers
would build my house!'

"And he took his place with the
shelterless under the trees by the road.

"And that golden bubble is empty
of all but hot vapour of pride."

The King cried in anger, "Leave
my land."

Calmly said the saint, "Yes, banish
me where you have banished my God."

142 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXXV

THE trumpet lies in the dust.

The wind is weary, the light is dead.

Ah, the evil day!

Come, fighters, carrying your flags,
and singers, with your war-songs!

Come, pilgrims of the march, hurry-
ing on your journey!

The trumpet lies in the dust waiting
for us.

I was on my way to the temple with
my evening offerings, seeking for a
place of rest after the day's dusty toil:
hoping my hurts would be healed and
the stains in my garment washed
white, when I found thy trumpet lying
in the dust.

Was it not the hour for me to light
my evening lamp ?

Painted In/ .(Ixiiniulranath Tagore

The truini>et lies in the dust

FRUIT-GATHERING 143

Had not the night sung its lullaby
to the stars?

0 thou blood-red rose, my poppies
of sleep have paled and faded !

1 was certain my wanderings were
over and my debts all paid when sud-
denly I came upon thy trumpet lying
in the dust.

Strike my drowsy heart with thy
spell of youth!

Let my joy in life blaze up in fire.

Let the shafts of awakening fly
through the heart of night, and a thrill
of dread shake blindness and palsy.

I have come to raise thy trumpet
from the dust.

Sleep is no more for me — my walk
shall be through showers of arrows.

Some shall run out of their houses
and come to my side — some shall weep.

Some in their beds shall toss and
groan in dire dreams.

144 FRUIT-GATHERING

For to-night thy trumpet shall be
sounded.

From thee I have asked peace only
to find shame.

Now I stand before thee — help me
to put on my armour!

Let hard blows of trouble strike fire
into my life.

Let my heart beat in pain, the drum
of thy victory.

My hands shall be utterly emptied
to take up thy trumpet.

FRUIT-GATHERING 145

XXXVI

WHEN, mad in their mirth, they raised
dust to soil thy robe, O Beautiful, it
made my heart sick.

I cried to thee and said, "Take thy
rod of punishment and judge them."

The morning light struck upon those
eyes, red with the revel of night; the
place of the white lily greeted their
burning breath; the stars through the
depth of the sacred dark stared at their
carousing — at those that raised dust to
soil thy robe, O Beautiful!

Thy judgment seat was in the flower
garden, in the birds' notes in spring-
time: in the shady river-banks, where
the trees muttered in answer to the
muttering of the waves.

O my Lover, they were pitiless in
their passion.

146 FRUIT-GATHERING

They prowled in the dark to snatch
thy ornaments to deck their own de-
sires.

When they had struck thee and
thou wert pained, it pierced me to the
quick, and I cried to thee and said,
"Take thy sword, O my Lover, and
judge them ! "

Ah, but thy justice was vigilant.

A mother's tears were shed on their
insolence; the imperishable faith of a
lover hid their spears of rebellion hi its
own wounds.

Thy judgment was in the mute pain
of sleepless love: in the blush of the
chaste: in the tears of the night of the
desolate: in the pale morning-light of
forgiveness.

O Terrible, they in their reckless
greed climbed thy gate at night, break-
ing into thy storehouse to rob thee.

But the weight of their plunder grew

FRUIT-GATHERING 147

immense, too heavy to carry or to re-
move.

Thereupon I cried to thee and said,
Forgive them, O Terrible!

Thy forgiveness burst in storms,
throwing them down, scattering their
thefts in the dust.

Thy forgiveness was in the thunder-
stone; in the shower of blood; in the
angry red of the sunset.

148 FRUIT-GATHERING

xxxvn

UPAGUPTA, the disciple of Buddha,
lay asleep on the dust by the city wall
of Mathura.

Lamps were all out, doors were all
shut, and stars were all hidden by the
murky sky of August.

Whose feet were those tinkling with
anklets, touching his breast of a sudden?

He woke up startled, and the light
from a woman's lamp struck his for-
giving eyes.

It was the dancing girl, starred with
jewels, clouded with a pale-blue mantle,
drunk with the wine of her youth.

She lowered her lamp and saw the
young face, austerely beautiful.

"Forgive me, young ascetic," said

FRUIT-GATHERING

the woman; "graciously come to my
house. The dusty earth is not a fit bed
for you."

The ascetic answered, "Woman, go
on your way; when the time is ripe I
will come to you."

Suddenly the black night showed its
teeth in a flash of lightning.

The storm growled from the corner
of the sky, and the woman trembled in
fear.

The branches of the wayside trees
were aching with blossom.

Gay notes of the flute came floating
in the warm spring air from afar.

The citizens had gone to the woods,
to the festival of flowers.

From the mid-sky gazed the full
moon on the shadows of the silent
town.

150 FRUIT-GATHERING

The young ascetic was walking in
the lonely street, while overhead the
lovesick koels urged from the mango
branches their sleepless plaint.

Upagupta passed through the city
gates, and stood at the base of the
rampart.

What woman lay in the shadow of
the wall at his feet, struck with the
black pestilence, her body spotted with
sores, hurriedly driven away from the
town?

The ascetic sat by her side, taking
her head on his knees, and moistened
her lips with water and smeared her
body with balm.

"Who are you, merciful one?" asked
the woman.

"The time, at last, has come to visit
you, and I am here," replied the young
ascetic.

FRUIT-GATHERING 151

xxxvm

THIS is no mere dallying of love be-
tween us, my lover.

Again and again have swooped down
upon me the screaming nights of storm,
blowing out my lamp: dark doubts
have gathered, blotting out all stars
from my sky.

Again and again the banks have
burst, letting the flood sweep away my
harvest, and wailing and despair have
rent my sky from end to end.

This have I learnt that there are
blows of pain in your love, never the
cold apathy of death.

152 FRUIT-GATHERING

XXXIX

THE wall breaks asunder, light, like
divine laughter, bursts in.
Victory, O Light!

The heart of the night is pierced!

With your flashing sword cut in
twain the tangle of doubt and feeble
desires !

Victory!

Come, Implacable!

Come, you who are terrible in your
whiteness.

O Light, your drum sounds in the
march of fire, and the red torch is
held on high; death dies in a burst of
splendour!

Painted by \nicmlranalh Tagore

The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter,
bursts in

FRUIT-GATHERING 153

XL

O FIRE, my brother, I sing victory to
you.

You are the bright red image of fear-
ful freedom.

You swing your arms in the sky,
you sweep your impetuous fingers
across the harp-string, your dance mu-
sic is beautiful.

When my days are ended and the
gates are opened you will burn to ashes
this cordage of hands and feet.

My body will be one with you, my
heart will be caught in the whirls of
your frenzy, and the burning heat that
was my life will flash up and mingle it-
self in your flame.

154 FRUIT-GATHERING

XLI

THE Boatman is out crossing the wild
sea at night.

The mast is aching because of its full
sails filled with the violent wind.

Stung with the night's fang the sky
falls upon the sea, poisoned with black
fear.

The waves dash their heads against
the dark unseen, and the Boatman is
out crossing the wild sea.

The Boatman is out, I know not for
what tryst, startling the night with the
sudden white of his sails.

I know not at what shore, at last, he
lands to reach the silent courtyard
where the lamp is burning and to find
her who sits in the dust and waits.

FRUIT-GATHERING 155

What is the quest that makes his
boat care not for storm nor dark-
ness?

Is it heavy with gems and pearls?

Ah, no, the Boatman brings with
him no treasure, but only a white rose
in his hand and a song on his lips.

It is for her who watches alone at
night with her lamp burning.

She dwells in the wayside hut.

Her loose hair flies in the wind and
hides her eyes.

The storm shrieks through her
broken doors, the light flickers in her
earthen lamp flinging shadows on the
walls.

Through the howl of the winds she
hears him call her name, she whose
name is unknown.

It is long since the Boatman sailed.

It will be long before the day breaks
and he knocks at the door.

156 FRUIT-GATHERING

The drums will not be beaten and
none will know.

Only light shall fill the house, blessed
shall be the dust, and the heart glad.

All doubts shall vanish in silence
when the Boatman comes to the shore.

Painted by \anda!al BOM

I cling to this living raft, my body

FRUIT-GATHERING 157

XLII

I CLING to this living raft, my body, in
the narrow stream of my earthly years.
I leave it when the crossing is over.

And then?

I do not know if the light there and
the darkness are the same.

The Unknown is the perpetual free-
dom:

He is pitiless in his love.

He crushes the shell for the pearl,
dumb in the prison of the dark.

You muse and weep for the days
that are done, poor heart!

Be glad that days are to come!

The hour strikes, O pilgrim!

It is time for you to take the parting
of the ways!

His face will be unveiled once again
and you shall meet.

158 FRUIT-GATHERING

XLIH

OVER the relic of Lord Buddha King
Bimbisar built a shrine, a salutation
in white marble.

There in the evening would come
all the brides and daughters of the
King's house to offer flowers and light
lamps.

When the son became king in his
time he washed his father's creed
away with blood, and lit sacrificial
fires with its sacred books.

The autumn day was dying.

The evening hour of worship was
near.

Shrimati, the queen's maid, devoted
to Lord Buddha, having bathed in holy
water, and decked the golden tray with

FRUIT-GATHERING 159

lamps and fresh white blossoms, si-
lently raised her dark eyes to the
queen's face.

The queen shuddered in fear and
said, "Do you not know, foolish girl,
that death is the penalty for whoever
brings worship to Buddha's shrine?

"Such is the king's will."

Shrimati bowed to the queen, and
turning away from her door came and
stood before Amita, the newly wed
bride of the king's son.

A mirror of burnished gold on her
lap, the newly wed bride was braiding
her dark long tresses and painting the
red spot of good luck at the parting of
her hair.

Her hands trembled when she saw
the young maid, arid she cried, "What
fearful peril would you bring me!
Leave me this instant.'

160 FRUIT-GATHERING

Princess Shukla sat at the window
reading her book of romance by the
light of the setting sun.

She started when she saw at her door
the maid with the sacred offerings.

Her book fell down from her lap,
and she whispered in Shrimati's ears,
"Rush not to death, daring woman!"

Shrimati walked from door to door.

She raised her head and cried, "O
women of the king's house, hasten!

"The time for our Lord's worship
is come!"

Some shut their doors in her face
and some reviled her.

The last gleam of daylight faded
from the bronze dome of the palace
tower.

Deep shadows settled in street cor-
ners: the bustle of the city was hushed:
the gong at the temple of Shiva an-
nounced the time of the evening prayer.

FRUIT-GATHERING 161

In the dark of the autumn evening,
deep as a limpid lake, stars throbbed
with light, when the guards of the
palace garden were startled to see
through the trees a row of lamps burn-
ing at the shrine of Buddha.

They ran with their swords un-
sheathed, crying, "Who are you, fool-
ish one, reckless of death?'*

"I am Shrimati," replied a sweet
voice, "the servant of Lord Buddha."

The next moment her heart's blood
coloured the cold marble with its red.

And in the still hour of stars died
the light of the last lamp of worship at
the foot of the shrine.

162 FRUIT-GATHERING

XLIV

THE day that stands between you and
me makes her last bow of farewell.

The night draws her veil over her
face, and hides the one lamp burning in
my chamber.

Your dark servant comes noiselessly
and spreads the bridal carpet for you
to take your seat there alone with me
in the wordless silence till night is
done.

FRUIT-GATHERING 163

XLV

MY night has passed on the bed of
sorrow, and my eyes are tired. My
heavy heart is not yet ready to meet
morning with its crowded joys.

Draw a veil over this naked light,
beckon aside from me this glaring flash
and dance of life.

Let the mantle of tender darkness
cover me in its folds, and cover my
pain awhile from the pressure of the
world.

164 FRUIT-GATHERING

XLVI

THE time is past when I could repay
her for all that I received.

Her night has found its morning and
thou hast taken her to thy arms: and
to thee I bring my gratitude and my
gifts that were for her.

For all hurts and offences to her I
come to thee for forgiveness.

I offer to thy service those flowers
of my love that remained in bud when
she waited for them to open.

FRUIT-GATIIERING 165

XLVH

I FOUND a few old letters of mine
carefully hidden in her box — a few
small toys for her memory to play with.
With a timorous heart she tried to
steal these trifles from time's turbulent
stream, and said, "These are mine
only!"

Ah, there is no one now to claim
them, who can pay their price with
loving care, yet here they are still.

Surely there is love in this world to
save her from utter loss, even like this
love of hers that saved these letters
with such fond care.

166 FRUIT-GATHERING

XLVin

BRING beauty and order into my for-
lorn life, woman, as you brought them
into my house when you lived.

Sweep away the dusty fragments of
the hours, fill the empty jars, and mend
all that has been neglected.

Then open the inner door of the
shrine, light the candle, and let us meet
there in silence before our God.

I'tiinted by Abanindranalk Tagore

The pain was great when the strings were being

l, my M.-i>lrr!

FRUIT-GATHERING 167

XLIX

THE pain was great when the strings
were being tuned, my Master!

Begin your music, and let me forget
the pain; let me feel in beauty what
you had in your mind through those
pitiless days.

The waning night lingers at my
doors, let her take her leave in songs.

Pour your heart into my life strings,
my Master, in tunes that descend from
your stars.

168 FRUIT-GATHERING

L

IN the lightning flash of a moment
I have seen the immensity of your
creation in my life — creation through
many a death from world to world.

I weep at my unworthiness when I
see my life in the hands of the unmean-
ing hours, — but when I see it in your
hands I know it is too precious to be
squandered among shadows.

FRUIT-GATHERING 169

LI

I KNOW that at the dim end of some
day the sun will bid me its farewell.

Shepherds will play their pipes be-
neath the banyan trees, and cattle
graze on the slope by the river, while
my days will pass into the dark.

This is my prayer, that I may know
before I leave why the earth called me
to her arms.

Why her night's silence spoke to me
of stars, and her daylight kissed my
thoughts into flower.

Before I go may I linger over my
last refrain, completing its music, may
the lamp be lit to see your face and the
wreath woven to crown you.

170 FRUIT-GATHERING

LII

WHAT music is that in whose measure
the world is rocked?

We laugh when it beats upon the
crest of life, we shrink in terror when
it returns into the dark.

But the play is the same that comes
and goes with the rhythm of the end-
less music.

You hide your treasure in the palm
of your hand, and we cry that we are
robbed.

But open and shut your palm as you
will, the gain and the loss are the same.

At the game you play with your
own self you lose and win at once.

FRUIT-GATHERING 171

LIH

I HAVE kissed this world with my eyes
and my limbs; I have wrapt it within
my heart in numberless folds; I have
flooded its days and nights with
thoughts till the world and my life
have grown one, — and I love my life
because I love the light of the sky so
enwoven with me.

If to leave this world be as real as
to love it — then there must be a mean-
ing in the meeting and the parting of
life.

If that love were deceived in death,
then the canker of this deceit would
eat into all things, and the stars would
shrivel and grow black.

172 FRUIT-GATHERING

LIV

THE Cloud said to me, "I vanish";
the Night said, "I plunge into the
fiery dawn."

The Pain said, "I remain in deep
silence as his footprint."

"I die into the fulness," said my life
to me.

The Earth said, "My lights kiss your
thoughts every moment."

"The days pass," Love said, "but I
wait for you."

Death said, "I ply the boat of your
life across the sea."

FRUIT-GATHERING 173

LV

TULSIDAS, the poet, was wandering,
deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that
lonely spot where they burn their dead.

He found a woman sitting at the
feet of the corpse of her dead husband,
gaily dressed as for a wedding.

She rose as she saw him, bowed to
him, and said, "Permit me, Master,
with your blessing, to follow my hus-
band to heaven."

"Why such hurry, my daughter?"
asked Tulsidas. "Is not this earth also
His who made heaven?"

"For heaven I do not long," said
the woman. "I want my husband."

Tulsidas smiled and said to her, "Go
back to your home, my child. Before
the month is over you will find your
husband."

174 FRUIT-GATHERING

The woman went back with glad
hope. Tulsidas came to her every day
and gave her high thoughts to think,
till her heart was filled to the brim
with divine love.

When the month was scarcely over,
her neighbours came to her, asking,
"Woman, have you found your hus-
band?"

The widow smiled and said, "I
have."

Eagerly they asked, "Where is he?"

"In my heart is my lord, one with
me," said the woman.

FRUIT-GATHERING 175

LVI

You came for a moment to my side
and touched me with the great mys-
tery of the woman that there is in the
heart of creation.

She who is ever returning to God
his own outflowing of sweetness; she is
the ever fresh beauty and youth in
nature; she dances in the bubbling
streams and sings in the morning light;
she with heaving waves suckles the
thirsty earth; in her the Eternal One
breaks in two in a joy that no longer
may contain itself, and overflows in the
pain of love.

176 FRUIT-GATHERING

LVH

WHO is she who dwells in my heart,
the woman forlorn for ever?

I wooed her and I failed to win her.

I decked her with wreaths and sang
in her praise.

A smile shone in her face for a mo-
ment, then it faded.

"I have no joy in thee," she cried,
the woman in sorrow.

I bought her jewelled anklets and
fanned her with a fan gem-studded; I
made her a bed on a bedstead of gold.

There flickered a gleam of gladness
in her eyes, then it died.

"I have no joy in these/' she cried,
the woman in sorrow.

I seated her upon a car of triumph

FRUIT-GATHERING 177

and drove her from end to end of the
earth.

Conquered hearts bowed down at
her feet, and shouts of applause rang in
the sky.

Pride shone in her eyes for a mo-
ment, then it was dimmed in tears.

"I have no joy in conquest," she
cried, the woman in sorrow.

I asked her, "Tell me whom do you
seek?"

She only said, "I wait for him of the
unknown name."

Days pass by and she cries, "When
will my beloved come whom I know
not, and be known to me for ever? "

178 FRUIT-GATHERING

Lvm

YOURS is the light that breaks forth
from the dark, and the good that
sprouts from the cleft heart of strife.

Yours is the house that opens upon
the world, and the love that calls to
the battlefield.

Yours is the gift that still is a gain
when everything is a loss, and the life
that flows through the caverns of
death.

Yours is the heaven that lies in the
common dust, and you are there for
me, you are there for all.

FRUIT-GATHERING 179

LIX

WHEN the weariness of the road is
upon me, and the thirst of the sultry
day; when the ghostly hours of the
dusk throw their shadows across my
life, then I cry not for your voice only,
my friend, but for your touch.

There is an anguish in my heart for
the burden of its riches not given to
you.

Put out your hand through the
night, let me hold it and fill it and keep
it; let me feel its touch along the
lengthening stretch of my loneliness.

180 FRUIT-GATHERING

LX

THE odour cries in the bud, "Ah me,
the day departs, the happy day of
spring, and I am a prisoner in petals!"

Do not lose heart, timid thing!

Your bonds will burst, the bud will
open into flower, and when you die in
the fulness of life, even then the spring

will live on.

v*

The odour pants and flutters within
the bud, crying, "Ah me, the hours pass
by, yet I do not know where I go, or
what it is I seek!"

Do not lose heart, timid thing!

The spring breeze has overheard
your desire, the day will not end before
you have fulfilled your being.

Dark is the future to her, and the

FRUIT-GATHERING 181

odour cries in despair, "Ah me, through

whose fault is my life so unmeaning?
"Who can tell me, why I am at all?"
Do not lose heart, timid thing!
The perfect dawn is near when you

will mingle your life with all life and

know at last your purpose.

182 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXI

SHE is still a child, my lord.

She runs about your palace and
plays, and tries to make of you a play-
thing as well.

She heeds not when her hair tumbles
down and her careless garment drags in
the dust.

She falls asleep when you speak to
her and answers not — and the flower
you give her in the morning slips to the
dust from her hands.

When the storm bursts and darkness
is over the sky she is sleepless; her
dolls lie scattered on the earth and she
clings to you in terror.

She is afraid that she may fail in
service to you.

But with a smile you watch her at
her game.

Painted by Nandalal Bose
She is still a child

FRUIT-GATHERING 183

You know her.

The child sitting hi the dust is your
destined bride; her play will be stilled
and deepened into love.

184 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXII

"WHAT is there but the sky, O Sun,
that can hold thine image?"

"I dream of thee, but to serve thee
I can never hope," the dewdrop wept
and said, "I am too small to take thee
unto me, great lord, and my life is all

tears."

"I illumine the limitless sky, yet I
can yield myself up to a tiny drop of
dew," thus the Sun said; "I shall be-
come but a sparkle of light and fill you,
and your little life will be a laughing
orb.",

FRUIT-GATHERING 185

Lxm

NOT for me is the love that knows no
restraint, but like the foaming wine
that having burst its vessel in a mo-
ment would run to waste.

Send me the love which is cool and
pure like your rain that blesses the
thirsty earth and fills the homely
earthen jars.

Send me the love that would soak
down into the centre of being, and from
there would spread like the unseen sap
through the branching tree of life, giv-
ing birth to fruits and flowers.

Send me the love that keeps the
heart still with the fulness of peace.

186 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXIV

THE sun had set on the western mar-
gin of the river among the tangle of
the forest.

The hermit boys had brought the
cattle home, and sat round the fire to
listen to the master, Guatama, when a
strange boy came, and greeted him
with fruits and flowers, and, bowing
low at his feet, spoke in a bird-like
voice — "Lord, I have come to thee to
be taken into the path of the supreme
Truth.

"My name is Satyakama."

"Blessings be on thy head," said the
master.

"Of what clan art thou, my child?
It is only fitting for a Brahmin to
aspire to the highest wisdom."

FRUIT-GATHERING 187

"Master," answered the boy, "I
know not of what clan I am. I shall
go and ask my mother."

Thus saying, Satyakama took leave,
and wading across the shallow stream,
came back to his mother's hut, which
stood at the end of the sandy waste at
the edge of the sleeping village.

The lamp burnt dimly in the room,
and the mother stood at the door in the
dark waiting for her son's return.

She clasped him to her bosom, kissed
him on his hair, and asked him of his
errand to the master.

"What is the name of my father,
dear mother?" asked the boy.

" It is only fitting for a Brahmin to
aspire to the highest wisdom, said Lord
Guatama to me."

The woman lowered her eyes, and
spoke in a whisper.

188 FRUIT-GATHERING

"In my youth I was poor and had
many masters. Thou didst come to
thy mother Jabala's arms, my darling,
who had no husband."

The early rays of the sun glistened
on the tree-tops of the forest hermi-
tage.

The students, with their tangled
hair still wet with their morning bath,
sat under the ancient tree, before the
master.

There came Satyakama.

He bowed low at the feet of the
sage, and stood silent.

"Tell me," the great teacher asked
him, "of what clan art thou?"

"My lord," he answered, "I know it
not. My mother said when I asked
her, 'I had served many masters in my
youth, and thou hadst come to thy
mother Jabala's arms, who had no
husband.'"

FRUIT-GATHERING 189

There rose a murmur like the angry
hum of bees disturbed in their hive;
and the students muttered at the
shameless insolence of that outcast.

Master Guatama rose from his seat,
stretched out his arms, took the boy
to his bosom, and said, "Best of all
Brahmins art thou, my child. Thou
hast the noblest heritage of truth."

190 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXV

MAY be there is one house in this city
where the gate opens for ever this
morning at the touch of the sunrise,
where the errand of the light is fulfilled.
The flowers have opened in hedges
and gardens, and may be there is one
heart that has found in them this
morning the gift that has been on its
voyage from endless time.

Painted by Almnindranath Tagore

M:iyl>r tlirrr is mir IIOUM- in tlii> rity

FRUIT-GATHERING 191

LXVI

LISTEN, my heart, in his flute is the
music of the smell of wild flowers, of
the glistening leaves and gleaming
water, of shadows resonant with bees'
wings.

The flute steals his smile from my
friend's lips and spreads it over my life.

192 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXVH

You always stand alone beyond the
stream of my songs.

The waves of my tunes wash your
feet but I know not how to reach them.

This play of mine with you is a play
from afar.

It is the pain of separation that
melts into melody through my flute.

I wait for the time when your boat
crosses over to my shore and you take
my flute into your own hands.

FRUIT-GATHERING 193

LXVIH

SUDDENLY the window of my heart
flew open this morning, the window
that looks out on your heart.

I wondered to see that the name by
which you know me is written in April
leaves and flowers, and I sat silent.

The curtain was blown away for a
moment between my songs and yours.

I found that your morning light was
full of my own mute songs unsung; I
thought that I would learn them at
your feet — and I sat silent.

194 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXIX

You were in the centre of my heart,
therefore when my heart wandered she
never found you; you hid yourself from
my loves and hopes till the last, for you
were always in them.

You were the inmost joy in the play
of my youth, and when I was too busy
with the play the joy was passed by.

You sang to me in the ecstasies of
my life and I forgot to sing to you.

FRUIT-GATHERING 195

LXX

WHEN you hold your lamp in the sky
it throws its light on my face and its
shadow falls over you.

When I hold the lamp of love in my
heart its light falls on you and I am
left standing behind in the shadow.

196 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXI

O THE waves, the sky-devouring waves,
glistening with light, dancing with Me,
the waves of eddying joy, rushing for
ever.

The stars rock upon them, thoughts
of every tint are cast up out of the
deep and scattered on the beach of life.

Birth and death rise and fall with
their rhythm, and the sea-gull of my
heart spreads its wings crying in de-
light.

%i

Painted by \andalal llo»r

O, the Waves, the Sky-devouring Waves!

FRUIT-GATHERING 197

LXXH

THE joy ran from all the world to build
my body.

The lights of the skies kissed and
kissed her till she woke.

Flowers of hurrying summers sighed
in her breath and voices of winds and
water sang in her movements.

The passion of the tide of colours
in clouds and in forests flowed into her
life, and the music of all things caressed
her limbs into shape.

She is my bride, — she has lighted
her lamp in my house.

198 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXIH

THE spring with its leaves and flowers
has come into my body.

The bees hum there the morning
long, and the winds idly play with the
shadows.

A sweet fountain springs up from
the heart of my heart.

My eyes are washed with delight
like the dew-bathed morning, and life
is quivering in all my limbs like the
sounding strings of the lute.

Are you wandering alone by the
shore of my life, where the tide is in
flood, O lover of my endless days?

Are my dreams flitting round you
like the moths with their many-col-
oured wings?

FRUIT-GATHERING 199

And are those your songs that arc
echoing in the dark caves of my being?

Who but you can hear the hum of
the crowded hours that sounds in my
veins to-day, the glad steps that dance
in my breast, the clamour of the rest-
less life beating its wings in my body?

200 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXIV

MY bonds are cut, my debts are paid,
my door has been opened, I go every-
where.

They crouch in their corner and
weave their web of pale hours, they
count their coins sitting in the dust
and call me back.

But my sword is forged, my armour
is put on, my horse is eager to run.
I shall win my kingdom.

Painted by Rurtndranath Kar

The spring with its leaves and flowers has come into
my body

FRUIT-GATHERING 201

LXXV

IT was only the other day that I came
to your earth, naked and nameless,
with a wailing cry.

To-day my voice is glad, while you,
my lord, stand aside to make room
that I may fill my life.

Even when I bring you my songs
for an offering I have the secret hope
that men will come and love me for
them.

You love to discover that I love this
world where you have brought me.

202 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXVI

TIMIDLY I cowered in the shadow of
safety, but now, when the surge of joy
carries my heart upon its crest, my
heart clings to the cruel rock of its
trouble.

I sat alone in a corner of my house
thinking it too narrow for any guest,
but now when its door is flung open by
an unbidden joy I find there is room for
thee and for all the world.

I walked upon tiptoe, careful of my
person, perfumed, and adorned — but
now when a glad whirlwind has over-
thrown me in the dust I laugh and roll
on the earth at thy feet like a child.

FRUIT-GATHERING 203

LXXVH

THE world is yours at once and for
ever.

And because you have no want, my
king, you have no pleasure in your
wealth.

It is as though it were naught.

Therefore through slow time you
give me what is yours, and ceaselessly
win your kingdom in me.

Day after day you buy your sunrise
from my heart, and you find your love
carven into the image of my life.

204 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXVIII

To the birds you gave songs, the birds
gave you songs in return.

You gave me only voice, yet asked
for more, and I sing. .

You made your winds light and they
are fleet in their service. You bur-
dened my hands that I myself may
lighten them, and at last, gain unbur-
dened freedom for your service.

You created your Earth filling its
shadows with fragments of light.

There you paused; you left me
empty-handed in the dust to create
your heaven.

To all things else you give; from me
you ask.

The harvest of my life ripens in the
sun and the shower till I reap more
than you sowed, gladdening your heart,
O Master of the golden granary.

FRUIT-GATHERING 205

LXXIX

LET me not pray to be sheltered from
dangers but to be fearless in facing
them.

Let me not beg for the stilling of
my pain but for the heart to conquer it.

Let me not look for allies in life's
battlefield but to my own strength.

Let me not crave in anxious fear to
be saved but hope for the patience to
win my freedom.

Grant me that I may not be a cow-
ard, feeling your mercy in my success
alone; but let me find the grasp of
your hand in my failure.

206 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXX

You did not know yourself when you
dwelt alone, and there was no crying
of an errand when the wind ran from
the hither to the farther shore.

I came and you woke, and the skies
blossomed with lights.

You made me open in many flowers;
rocked me in the cradles of many forms;
hid me in death and found me again in
life.

I came and your heart heaved; pain
came to you and joy.

You touched me and tingled into
love.

But in my eyes there is a film of
shame and in my breast a flicker of

FRUIT-GATHERING 207

fear; my face is veiled and I weep when
I cannot see you.

Yet I know the endless thirst in
your heart for sight of me, the thirst
that cries at my door in the repeated
knockings of sunrise.

208 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXXI

You, in your timeless watch, listen to
my approaching steps while your glad-
ness gathers in the morning twilight
and breaks in the burst of light.

The nearer I draw to you the deeper
grows the fervour in the dance of the
sea.

Your world is a branching spray of
light filling your hands, but your
heaven is in my secret heart; it slowly
opens its buds in shy love.

FRUIT-GATHERING 209

Lxxxn

I WILL utter your name, sitting alone
among the shadows of my silent

thoughts,
t

I will utter it without words, I will
utter it without purpose.

For I am like a child that calls its
mother an hundred times, glad that it
can say "Mother."

210 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXXIII

I FEEL that all the stars shine in me.

The world breaks into my life like a
flood.

The flowers blossom in my body.

All the youthfulness of land and
water smokes like an incense in my
heart; and the breath of all things plays
on my thoughts as on a flute.

n

When the world sleeps I come to
your door.

The stars are silent, and I am afraid
to sing.

I wait and watch, till your shadow

FRUIT-GATHERING 21 1

passes by the balcony of night and I
return with a full heart.

Then in the morning I sing by the
roadside;

The flowers in the hedge give me
answer and the morning air listens,

The travellers suddenly stop and
look in my face, thinking I have called
them by their names.

ra

Keep me at your door ever attend-
ing to your wishes, and let me go
about in your Kingdom accepting your
call.

Let me not sink and disappear in
the depth of languor.

Let not my life be worn out to
tatters by penury of waste.

Let not those doubts encompass me,
— the dust of distractions.

FRUIT-GATHERING

Let me not pursue many paths to
gather many things.

Let me not bend my heart to the
yoke of the many.

Let me hold my head high in the
courage and pride of being your ser-
vant.

FRUIT-GATHERING 213

LXXXIV
THE OARSMEN

Do you hear the tumult of death afar,
The call midst the fire-floods and

poisonous clouds
— The Captain's call to the steersman

to turn the ship to an unnamed

shore,
For that time is over — the stagnant

time in the port —
Where the same old merchandise is

bought and sold in an endless

round,

Where dead things drift in the ex-
haustion and emptiness of truth.

They wake up in sudden fear and ask,
" Comrades, what hour has struck?
When shall the dawn begin?"

214 FRUIT-GATHERING

The clouds have blotted away the
stars —

Who is there then can see the beckon-
ing finger of the day?

They run out with oars in hand, the
beds are emptied, the mother
prays, the wife watches by the
door;

There is a wail of parting that rises to
the sky,

And there is the Captain's voice in
the dark:

"Come, sailors, for the time in the
harbour is over!"

All the black evils in the world have

overflowed their banks,
Yet, oarsmen, take your places with

the blessing of sorrow in your

souls!
Whom do you blame, brothers? Bow

your heads down !
The sin has been yours and ours.

FRUIT-GATHERING 215

The heat growing in the heart of God
for ages —

The cowardice of the weak, the arro-
gance of the strong, the greed of
fat prosperity, the rancour of the
wronged, pride of race, and insult
to man —

Has burst God's peace, raging in storm.

Like a ripe pod, let the tempest break
its heart into pieces, scattering
thunders.

Stop your bluster of dispraise and of
self-praise,

And with the calm of silent prayer on
your foreheads sail .to that un-
named shore.

We have known sins and evils every
day and death we have known;

They pass over our world like clouds
mocking us with their transient
lightning laughter.

216 FRUIT-GATHERING

Suddenly they have stopped, become a
prodigy,

And men must stand before them
saying:

"We do not fear you, O Monster! for
we have lived every day by con-
quering you,

"And we die with the faith that Peace
is true, and Good is true, and true
is the eternal One!"

If the Deathless dwell not in the heart

of death,
If glad wisdom bloom not bursting the

sheath of sorrow,

If sin do not die of its own revealment,
If pride break not under its load of

decorations,
Then whence comes the hope that

drives these men from their homes

like stars rushing to their death in

the morning light?
Shall the value of the martyrs' blood

FRUIT-GATHERING 217

and mothers' tears be utterly lost
in the dust of the earth, not buying
Heaven with their price?
And when Man bursts his mortal
bounds, is not the Boundless re-
vealed that moment?

218 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXXV

THE SONG OF THE
DEFEATED

MY Master has bid me while I stand at
the roadside, to sing the song of Defeat,
for that is the bride whom He woos in
secret.

She has put on the dark veil, hiding
her face from the crowd, but the jewel
glows on her breast in the dark.

She is forsaken of the day, and God's
night is waiting for her with its lamps
lighted and flowers wet with dew.

She is silent with her eyes down-
cast; she has left her home behind her,
from her home has come that wailing in
the wind.

But the stars are singing the love-

FRUIT-GATHERING 319

song of the eternal to a face sweet
with shame and suffering.

The door has been opened in the
lonely chamber, the call has sounded,
and the heart of the darkness throbs
with awe because of the coming tryst.

220 FRUIT-GATHERING

LXXXVI
THANKSGIVING

THOSE who walk on the path of pride
crushing the lowly life under their
tread, covering the tender green of the
earth with their footprints in blood;

Let them rejoice, and thank thee,
Lord, for the day is theirs.

But I am thankful that my lot
lies with the humble who suffer and
bear the burden of power, and hide
their faces and stifle their sobs in the
dark.

For every throb of their pain has
pulsed in the secret depth of thy night,
and every insult has been gathered into
thy great silence.

FRUIT-GATHERING ssi

And the morrow is theirs.

O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts
blossoming in flowers of the morning,
and the torchlight revelry of pride
shrunken to ashes.

Printed in the United 8UU» of

JfJ

Tagore, (Sir) Rabindranath

Gitanjali and Fruit-gathepinj

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