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.”
“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.
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 in his grace”; and then they took their seat
in a corner and they sat quiet and meek.
But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shrine,
strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from
God’s altar.
34.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on
every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love
every moment.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy
will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life—and that is the fetter
of thy love.
35.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow
domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary
desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and
action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
36.
This is my prayer to thee, my lord—strike, strike at the root of penury
in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before
insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with
love.
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.
As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even
thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry—I want thee, only
thee.
As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace
with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and
still its cry is—I want thee, only thee.
39.
When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower of
mercy.
When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.
When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.
When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open
the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.
When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.
40.
The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked—not the thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not
the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and with
lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat, still and
keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look of the
mother on the day of the father’s wrath.
41.
Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee,
while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is
nearly empty.
The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes
are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill
me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face,
and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them
not.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou
hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my
dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden
splendour of thy coming—all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying
over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see
thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy
side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a
creeper in a summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot.
Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory.
Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them
all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain
longing?
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?
43.
The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee; and
entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to
me, my king, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a
fleeting moment of my life.
And today when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I
find they have lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory of joys
and sorrows of my trivial days forgotten.
Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and
the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing
from star to star.
44.
This is my delight, thus to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow
chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer.
Messengers, with tidings from unknown skies, greet me and speed along
the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze
is sweet.
From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that of a
sudden the happy moment will arrive when I shall see.
In the meanwhile I smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile the air
is filling with the perfume of promise.
45.
Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes,
ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes
have always proclaimed, “He comes, comes, ever comes.”
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds
he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it
is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
46.
I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet
me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy
messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a feeling of
tremulous joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the
air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.
47.
The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest in the
morning he suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep wearied
out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him— forbid him not.
If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I
pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of
birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me
sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes of a sudden to my door.
Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to vanish.
Ah, my closed eyes that would open their lids only to the light of his
smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of
sleep.
Let him appear before my sight as the first of all lights and all
forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his
glance. And let my return to myself be immediate return to him.
48.
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the
flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was
scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our
way and paid no heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for
barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We
quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered
leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shepherd boy
drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid myself
down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and
hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the
distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed
through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of
the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but
found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a
glad humiliation—in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my
heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind
without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee
standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that
the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was
hard!
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!
My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and I
stood waiting for alms to be given unasked and for wealth scattered on
all sides in the dust.
The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou
camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at
last. Then of a sudden thou didst hold out thy right hand and say “What
hast thou to give to me?”
Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg! I
was confused and stood undecided, and then from my wallet I slowly took
out the least little grain of corn and gave it to thee.
But how great my surprise when at the day’s end I emptied my bag on the
floor to find a least little gram of gold among the poor heap. I
bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to give thee my all.
51.
The night darkened. Our day’s works had been done. We thought that the
last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were
all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said “No,
it cannot be!”
It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but
the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said,
“It is the messenger!” We laughed and said “No, it must be the wind!”
There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was
the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, and it troubled
us in our sleep. Only some said it was the sound of wheels. We said in
a drowsy murmur, “No, it must be the rumbling of clouds!”
The night was still dark when the drum sounded. The voice came “Wake
up! delay not!” We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with
fear. Some said, “Lo, there is the king’s flag!” We stood up on our
feet and cried “There is no time for delay!”
The king has come—but where are lights, where are wreaths? Where is the
throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame! Where is the hall, the
decorations? Someone has said, “Vain is this cry! Greet him with empty
hands, lead him into thy rooms all bare!”
Open the doors, let the conch-shells be sounded! in the depth of the
night has come the king of our dark, dreary house. The thunder roars in
the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered
piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of
a sudden our king of the fearful night.
52.
I thought I should ask of thee—but I dared not—the rose wreath thou
hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst
depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I
searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.
Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower,
no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing
as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning
comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning
bird twitters and asks, “Woman, what hast thou got?” No, it is no
flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water—it is thy dreadful
sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no
place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts
me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this
honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.
From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou
shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my
companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to
cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the
world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more
shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness
and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment.
No more doll’s decorations for me!
53.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in
myriad-coloured jewels. But more beautiful to me thy sword with its
curve of lightning like the outspread wings of the divine bird of
Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the
final stroke of death; it shines like the pure flame of being burning
up earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems; but thy sword, O
lord of thunder, is wrought with uttermost beauty, terrible to behold
or think of.
54.
I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When
thou took’st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where
the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with
their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me and
shouted, “Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.” But I
languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when they
fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low—“Ah, I am a thirsty
traveller.” I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my
jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang
from the unseen dark, and perfume of _babla_ flowers came from the bend
of the road.
I stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what
had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I
could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and
enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in
weary notes, _neem_ leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and
think.
55.
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour
among thorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my
friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun—what
if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst—
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours,
will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain?
56.
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast
come down to me. O thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if
I were not?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is
the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking
shape.
And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in
beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the
love of thy lover, and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two.
57.
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light
strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the sky opens, the wind
runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light. Lilies and
jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling, and it
scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling, and gladness without
measure. The heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy
is abroad.
58.
Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song—the joy that makes
the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass, the joy that
sets the twin brothers, life and death, dancing over the wide world,
the joy that sweeps in with the tempest, shaking and waking all life
with laughter, the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red
lotus of pain, and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust,
and knows not a word.
59.
Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, O beloved of my heart— this
golden light that dances upon the leaves, these idle clouds sailing
across the sky, this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my
forehead.
The morning light has flooded my eyes—this is thy message to my heart.
Thy face is bent from above, thy eyes look down on my eyes, and my
heart has touched thy feet.
60.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is
motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the
seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With
withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the
vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl
fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children
gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden
treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea
beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with
children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the
pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad
and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great
meeting of children.
61.
The sleep that flits on baby’s eyes—does anybody know from where it
comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the
fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms,
there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss
baby’s eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps—does anybody know
where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a
crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there
the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning—the smile
that flickers on baby’s lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby’s limbs—does anybody know
where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it
lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love—the sweet,
soft freshness that has bloomed on baby’s limbs.
62.
When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is
such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted
in tints—when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening
earth—when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is
honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with
sweet juice—when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely
understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and
what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my
body—when I kiss you to make you smile.
63.
Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me
seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made
a brother of the stranger.
I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I
forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou
abidest.
Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou
leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life
who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.
When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.
Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of
the one in the play of many.
64.
On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her,
“Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle? My house
is all dark and lonesome—lend me your light!” she raised her dark eyes
for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk. “I have come to
the river,” she said, “to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight
wanes in the west.” I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the
timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide.
In the silence of gathering night I asked her, “Maiden, your lights are
all lit—then where do you go with your lamp? My house is all dark and
lonesome—lend me your light.” She raised her dark eyes on my face and
stood for a moment doubtful. “I have come,” she said at last, “to
dedicate my lamp to the sky.” I stood and watched her light uselessly
burning in the void.
In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her, “Maiden, what is your
quest, holding the lamp near your heart? My house is all dark and
lonesome—lend me your light.” She stopped for a minute and thought and
gazed at my face in the dark. “I have brought my light,” she said, “to
join the carnival of lamps.” I stood and watched her little lamp
uselessly lost among lights.
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 who ever had remained in the depth of my being, in the twilight of
gleams and of glimpses; she who never opened her veils in the morning
light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win her; persuasion has stretched to her
its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my
heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my
life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet
dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her and turned away in
despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she
remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.
67.
Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as well.
O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul
with colours and sounds and odours.
There comes the morning with the golden basket in her right hand
bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth.
And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds,
through trackless paths, carrying cool draughts of peace in her golden
pitcher from the western ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her
flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor
night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word.
68.
Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine with arms outstretched and
stands at my door the livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds
made of my tears and sighs and songs.
With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of
misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring
it with hues everchanging.
It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is
why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene. And that is why it may
cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows.
69.
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs
through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in
numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves
and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of
death, in ebb and in flow.
I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this
moment.
70.
Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm? to be
tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?
All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind, no power can
hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and
pass away—colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the
abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.
71.
That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus
casting coloured shadows on thy radiance—such is thy _maya_.
Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed
self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me.
The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears
and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again, dreams
break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self.
This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures
with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in
wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of
straightness.
The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune
of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the
hiding and seeking of thee and me.
72.
He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden
touches.
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on
the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this _maya_ in evanescent hues of gold
and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his
feet, at whose touch I forget myself.
Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a
name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.
73.
Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of
freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.
Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various
colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim.
My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and
place them before the altar of thy temple.
No, I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight and
hearing and touch will bear thy delight.
Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my
desires ripen into fruits of love.
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
undiminished.
The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and
hamlets; yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy
feet.
The flower sweetens the air with its perfume; yet its last service is
to offer itself to thee.
Thy worship does not impoverish the world.
From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them; yet
their last meaning points to thee.
76.
Day after day, O lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to
face. With folded hands, O lord of all worlds, shall I stand before
thee face to face.
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I
stand before thee face to face.
In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with
struggle, among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to face.
And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of kings, alone
and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.
77.
I know thee as my God and stand apart—I do not know thee as my own and
come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet—I do not
grasp thy hand as my friend’s.
I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine, there to
clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.
Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers, but I heed them not, I divide
not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee.
In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand
by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the
great waters of life.
78.
When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first
splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang “Oh, the
picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!”
But one cried of a sudden—“It seems that somewhere there is a break in
the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.”
The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they
cried in dismay—“Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of
all heavens!”
From that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from
one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy!
Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among
themselves—“Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!”
79.
If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever feel
that I have missed thy sight—let me not forget for a moment, let me
carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow
full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained
nothing—let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this
sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low
in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before
me—let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in
my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the
laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee
to my house—let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of
this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
80.
I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky,
O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making
me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from
thee.
If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting
emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it
on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.
And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall
melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white
morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.
81.
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never
lost, my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own
hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had
ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders
of flowers.
82.
Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy
minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest
how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for a
chances. We are too poor to be late.
And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous man
who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut; but I
find that yet there is time.
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 nights from
star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness
of July.
It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joy in human homes; and this it is that ever melts and
flows in songs through my poet’s heart.
85.
When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where had
they hid their power? Where were their armour and their arms?
They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them
on the day they came out from their master’s hall.
When the warriors marched back again to their master’s hall where did
they hide their power?
They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow; peace was
on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind
them on the day they marched back again to their master’s hall.
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.