Class. 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 
 
GITANJALI AND 
 FRUIT-GATHERING 
 
'j^^y^ 
 
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 NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
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Paintid by Suitdalal Hose 
 
CITANJALI AND 
 FRUIT- GATHERING 
 
 BY SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY NANDALAL 
 BOSE.SIIRENDRANATH KAR. ARMSIIN 
 
 DRANATH TACX)RB» AND NOBENDRANAIH 
 TAGORE 
 
 THE MACMIUAN COMPANY 
 
 \ 
 

 N^ 
 
 COPTBISHT, 1916, 
 
 bt the macmillan company. 
 
 JfXW ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 
 
 COPTRIQHT, 1918, 
 
 Bt the macmillan COMPANY. 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1918. 
 
 NoriDooIi iprt«0 
 
 J. S. Gushing Co. — Berwick <fc Smith 0©. 
 
 Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
 OCT -1 1918 V 
 
4 
 
 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 
 
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 Httle 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 out 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 
 their reverence for this man sounded 
 strange in our world, where we hide 
 great and little things under the same 
 veil of obvious comedy and half -serious 
 depreciation. When we were making 
 the cathedrals had we a like reverence 
 for our great men? "Every morning 
 at three — I know, for I have seen it" — 
 one said to me, "he sits immovable in 
 contemplation, and for two hours does 
 not awake from his reverie upon the 
 nature of God. His father, the Maha 
 Rishi, would sometimes sit there all 
 through the next day; once, upon a 
 
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 roimd him in his home 
 literature and music." I thought of 
 the abundance, of the simplicity of the 
 poems, and said, "In your country 
 is there much propagandist writing, 
 much criticism? We have to do so 
 much, especially in my own country, 
 that our minds gradually cease to be 
 creative, and yet we cannot help it. If 
 our life was not a continual warfare, we 
 would not have taste, we would not 
 know what is good, we would not find 
 hearers and readers. Four-fifths of our 
 energy is spent in the quarrel with bad 
 taste, whether in our own minds or in 
 the minds of others." "I understand," 
 
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 reHgion 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 
 in her bed for the petals fallen from 
 the wreath of her royal lover, the 
 servant or the bride awaiting the 
 master's home-coming in the empty 
 house, are images of the heart turning 
 to God. Flowers and rivers, the 
 blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain 
 of the Indian July, or the parching 
 heat, are images of the moods of that 
 heart in 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. 
 
XX GITANJALI 
 
 III 
 
 We write long books where no 
 page perhaps has any quality to make 
 writing a pleasure, being confident in 
 some general design, just as we fight 
 and make money and fill our heads 
 with politics — all dull things in the 
 doing — while Mr. Tagore, like the 
 Indian civilization itself, has been 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 Hfe 
 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 lie 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 1912. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAOES 
 
 GiTANJALI . . . . . . 1-95 
 
 Fruit-Gathebing 97-221 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 The rain has held back for days 
 
 On the slope of the desolate river 
 
 Deliverance is not for me in renunciation 
 
 This autumn morning is tired with excess of light 
 
 The bird of the morning sings .... 
 
 The pain was great when the strings were being 
 
 tuned, my master ! . . . , 
 O the waves, the sky-devouring waves 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 SO 
 
 58 
 
 68 
 
 lSd6 
 
 128 
 
 166 
 196 
 
 XXV 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK AND 
 WHITE 
 
 you 
 
 well 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 G 
 8 
 
 10 
 12 
 18 
 24 
 36 
 48 
 52 
 
 ord 
 
 My Song has put off her adoraments 
 
 Leave this chanting and singing 
 
 Here is thy footstool 
 
 The song that I came to sing . 
 
 Art thou abroad on this stormy night 
 
 Prisoners, tell me, who was it that bound 
 
 Have you not heard his silent steps . 
 
 I asked nothing from thee 
 
 When I bring to you coloured toys . 
 
 Thou art the sky and thou art the nest as 
 
 I am like a remnant of a cloud 
 
 ^^^len I go from hence let this be my parting w 
 
 Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs 
 
 Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not 
 
 also for withered leaves and faded flowers ? 
 I brought out my earthen lamp 
 Make me thy poet, O Night, Veiled Night 
 A smile of mirth spread over the sky 
 The trumpet lies in the dust .... 
 The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, 
 
 bursts in . . . . . . 
 
 I cling to this living raft, my body . 
 She is still a child .... 
 
 Maybe there is one house in this city 
 
 The spring with its leaves and flowers has come into 
 
 my body 200 
 
 xxvii 
 
 74 
 
 88' 
 
 92 
 
 100 
 118 
 122 
 134 
 142 
 
 152 
 156 
 
 182 
 190 
 
GITANJALI 
 
Thou hast made me endless, such is 
 thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou 
 emptiest again and again, and fiUest 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. 
 
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 
 
 I KNOW not how thou singest, my 
 master! I ever Hsten 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! 
 
 4 
 
 Life of my life, I shall ever try to 
 keep my body pure, knowing that thy 
 living touch is upon all my limbs. 
 I shall ever try to keep all untruths 
 
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 
 feai 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. 
 
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 
 dowTi 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 
 
Dmirn by Xaiidalal Bose 
 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 regTet. 
 
 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, v-' 
 
 11 
 
 Leave this chanting and singing and 
 telling of beads! Whom dost thou 
 worship in this lonely dark corner of a 
 
Painted by Nandalal Base 
 Leave this chanting and singing 
 
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! 
 WTiat 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 
 
 n 
 
 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 *'0h, 
 where?" melt into tears of a thousand 
 streams and deluge the world with the 
 flood of the assurance "I am!" 
 
Painted by Surcmlninath Kur 
 
 Here is thy footstool 
 
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 livelong day has passed in 
 spreading his seat on the floor; but the 
 lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask 
 him into my house. 
 
 I live in the hope of meeting with 
 him; but this meeting is not yet. 
 
U 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 in their 
 blame. 
 
 The market day is over and work is 
 all done for the busy. Those who came 
 to call me in vain have gone back in 
 anger. I- am only waiting for love to 
 give myself up at last into his hands. 
 
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. 
 
 20 
 
 On the day when the lotus bloomed, 
 alas, my mind was straying, and I knew 
 it not. My basket was empty and the 
 flower remained unheeded. 
 
 Only now and again a sadness fell 
 upon me, and I started up from my 
 dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange 
 fragrance in the south wind. 
 
 That vague sweetness made my heart 
 ache with longing and it seemed to me 
 
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. 
 
 21 
 
 I MUST launch out my boat. The 
 languid hours pass by on the shore — 
 Alas for me! 
 
 The spring has done its flowering and 
 taken leave. And now with the burden 
 of faded futile flowers I wait and linger. 
 
 The waves have become clamorous, 
 and upon the bank in the shady lane the 
 yellow leaves flutter and fall. 
 
 What emptiness do you gaze upon! 
 Do you not feel a thrill passing through 
 the air with the notes of the far away 
 song floating from the other shore? 
 
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 Xanclalal Bosc 
 
 Art thou abroad on this stormy night? 
 
GITAXJALI 19 
 
 again I open my door and look out on 
 tlie darkness, my friend! 
 
 I can see nothing before me. I 
 wonder where Hes thy path ! 
 
 Bv 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, mv 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 WTapt 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 Hfe 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 in 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 in this dungeon. I am ever 
 busy building this wall all around; and 
 as this wall goes up into the sky day 
 by day I lose sight of my true being in 
 its dark shadow. 
 
 I take pride in this great wall, and I 
 plaster it with dust and sand lest a least 
 hole should be left in this name; and 
 for all the care I take I lose sight of 
 my true being. 
 
 30 
 
 I CAME out alone on my way to my 
 tryst. But who is this that follows me 
 in the silent dark.'' 
 
24 GITANJALI 
 
 I move aside to avoid his presence 
 but I escape liim not. 
 
 He makes the dust rise from the 
 earth with his swagger; he adds his 
 loud voice to every word that I utter. 
 
 lie 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. " 
 
% 
 
 ^ 
 
 Painted by Abanindranath Tagorc 
 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." 
 
 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. 
 
 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 
 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 rebel- 
 lion strikes against thy love and still its 
 cry is — I want thee, only thee. 
 
 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 
 

 *> ;: 
 
 V 
 
 ^ 
 
GITANJALI 31 
 
 open the door, my king, and come with 
 the ceremony of a king. 
 
 When desire blinds the mind with 
 dehision and dust, 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, ^nd 
 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. 
 
Painted by Abanindranalh 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 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 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 thee was 
 hard! 
 
42 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 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 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 
 
 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? 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 Hke 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, 
 
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 thinec 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. 
 
'p^P^: 
 
 ^w 
 
 '>^ 
 
 Painted by Nandcdal 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 pitehers full to the 
 brim. They eallcd me and shouted, 
 "Come with us, the morning is wearing 
 on to noon." But T 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 voiee 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. 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 
 
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. 
 
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. AYith 
 withered leaves they weave their boats 
 and smilini2:lv iloat 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. 
 
 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 
 
Painted by Siirendrunulh Kur 
 
 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 1 
 asked her, "Maiden, your Hghts 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 wTio 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. 
 
62 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 
 

 
 ^ 
 
 
 Painti'd hy Naiulalal Hone 
 
 Thou art tlie 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. 
 
 68 
 
 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 dehght 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. 
 A.nd that is why it may cover thy 
 iwful 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 
 
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 maya. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 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 
 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 Abanindranafh Togorc 
 
 Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. 
 
GITANJALI 69 
 
 74 
 
 The day is no more, the sliadow 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 everj^day work to 
 do and hastens throusrh 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 w^orld 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 
 

 
 
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 9 
 
 
 
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 A 
 
 
 
 
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 dmm 
 
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 mH 
 
 Puiiitrd hij Nandalal Bose 
 
 I am like a remnant of a cloud 
 
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. 
 
 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 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? AYliere 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 in 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 
 
 88 
 
 Deity of the ruined temple! The 
 broken strings of Vina sing no more 
 your praise. The bells in the evening 
 proclaim not your time of worship. 
 The air is still and silent about you. 
 
 In your desolate dwelling comes the 
 vagrant spring breeze. It brings the 
 tidings of flowers — the flowers that for 
 your worship are ofl^ered 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 timeO 
 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 Hfe. 
 
 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. 
 
 92 
 
 I KNOW that the day will come when 
 my sight of this earth shall be lost, and 
 life will take its leave in silence, drawing 
 the last curtain over my eyes. 
 
 Yet stars will watch at night, and 
 morning rise as before, and hours heave 
 like sea waves casting up pleasures and 
 pains. 
 
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. 
 
 93 
 
 I HAVE got my leave. Bid me farewell, 
 my brothers! I bow to you all and 
 take my departure. 
 
 Here I give back the keys of my 
 door — and I give up all claims to my 
 house. I only ask for last kind words 
 from you. 
 
 We were neighbours for long, but I 
 received more than I could give. Now 
 the day has dawned and the lamp 
 
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 
 niy 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 Hfe. 
 
 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 GITANJALI 
 
 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 Asit Kumar Ilaldar 
 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 rmming 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 in 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? 
 
Painted bij Abanindmnath Tufjore 
 
 Ever in my life have 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 — Naivedya, 
 KheyS., and Gitanjali — to be had at 
 the Indian Publishing House, 22 
 CornwalHs 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 FEUIT-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 Ahanindranath Tagore 
 
 Is summer's festival only for fresh blossoms and not 
 also for withered leaves and faded flowers ? 
 
FRUIT-GATHERING 101 
 
 ni 
 
 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 
 
 vni 
 
 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-GATHEHING 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-GATHEllING 
 
 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 Sildi 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 113 
 
 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 
 
 xin 
 
 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 1 7 
 
 XVI 
 
 They knew the way and went to seek 
 you along the narrow lane, but I 
 wandered abroad into the night for 1 
 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. 
 
1 18 FRUIT-GATHERING 
 
 XVII 
 
 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 Ues broken in the dust! *' 
 
Painted bij AbanindrdiKiH' Tui/nn' 
 I brought out my eartlieu lamp 
 
FRUIT-GATIIEUING 1 19 
 
 XVIII 
 
 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 121 
 
 XIX 
 
 SuDAS, the gardener, plucked from 
 his tank the last lotus left by the ravage 
 of winter and went to sell it to the king 
 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 
 
122 FRUIT-GATHERING 
 
 offered a golden mdslid 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 Nandahil Bose 
 
 TNIake me thy poet, O Night, Veiled Night 
 
FRUIT-GATHEHING 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 
 
l>t FRUIT-GATHERING 
 
 chants, slinking tlio darkness to its 
 foundation. 
 
 Those wakeful souls gaze in the 
 starlight, in womler at the treasure they 
 have suddenly found. 
 
 IN lake nie their poet, O Night, the 
 poet of thy fathomless silence. 
 
FllUIT-GATllEUING 1^25 
 
 XXI 
 
 I WILL meet one day the Life within 
 nie, the joy that hides in my Hfe, though 
 tlie 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 in 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. 
 
Painlcd by Alxinindrunulh Tagore 
 
 This autumn morning is tired with excess of light 
 
FRUIT-GATHERING 127 
 
 XXIII 
 
 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 ruflOie the 
 night. 
 
be 
 
 =~1 rH 
 
 s 2 
 
 5 -^ 
 
 »> o 
 •2 ^ 
 
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 
 
 XXVII 
 
 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. 
 
132 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 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 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. 
 
T ' 
 
 ^ -^^R.. 
 
 Painted hy Nohcndranctth Tagore 
 
 A smile of mirth spread over the sky 
 
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 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 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 ? 
 
FRUIT-GATHERING 143 
 
 Had not the night sung its lullaby 
 to the stars? 
 
 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. 
 
Sf^ 
 
 I'aiiittd b// AlMnuiJraiuiih Tiujorc 
 
 The trumpet lies in the dust 
 
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 in 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 bm'st 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 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 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 149 
 
 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 Iwcls 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 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 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 hij Xnhindraiuitli Tagorc 
 
 The wall breaks asunder, light, like divine laughter, 
 bursts in 
 
FRUIT-GATHERING I5i 
 
 XL 
 
 O FraE, 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. 
 
 TMien 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 Nandalal Bosc 
 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.f^ 
 
 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 
 
 XLIII 
 
 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 w ith 
 
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, and 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, *'0 
 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-GATHERING 165 
 
 XLVII 
 
 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 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 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. 
 
Painted by ^ibanindnuuith iagorc 
 
 The pain was great when the strings were being 
 tuned, my Master! 
 
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 Kfe — 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 
 
 LIII 
 
 I HAVE kissed this world with my eyes 
 and my Hmbs; 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 rRUIT-Gx\THERING 
 
 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 bubbhng 
 streams and sings in the morning Hght; 
 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 
 
 LVII 
 
 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 
 
 LVin 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Hfe 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 he 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 in 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 
 
 LXIII 
 
 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 sot 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 tlie 
 master. 
 
 "Of what clan art thou, my child.'* 
 It is only fitting for a Brahmin to 
 aspire to tlie 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. 
 
1S8 FRUIT-GATHERING 
 
 "In my youth I was poor and had 
 many masters. Thou didst come to 
 thy mother Jabala's arms, my darUng, 
 who had no husband.'* 
 
 The early rays of the sun ghstened 
 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 bij Abaniiulrauatli Tagore 
 
 Maybe there is one house in this city 
 
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 
 
 LXVII 
 
 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 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 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 hght, dancing with life, 
 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. 
 
Painted by Nandalal Bosc 
 O, the Waves, the Sky-devouring Waves! 
 
FRUIT-GATHERING 197 
 
 LXXII 
 
 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 
 
 LXXIII 
 
 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 are 
 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 hy Siirendranath 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 
 
 LXXVII 
 
 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 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 I WILL utter your name, sitting alone 
 among the shadows of my silent 
 
 thoughts. 
 
 >-. 
 
 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 211 
 
 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. 
 
 in 
 
 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. 
 
212 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 Hved 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 219 
 
 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 221 
 
 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. 
 
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