Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 59

O woman, you are not merely the

handiwork of God, but also of men;

these are ever endowing you with

beauty from their hearts.

Poets are weaving for you a web

with threads of golden imagery;

painters are giving your form ever

new immortality.

The sea gives its pearls, the mines

their gold, the summer gardens their

flowers to deck you, to cover you, to

make you more precious.

The desire of men's hearts has shed

its glory over your youth.

You are one half woman and one

half dream.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 51

Then finish the last song and let us

leave.

Forget this night when the night is

no more.

Whom do I try to clasp in my

arms? Dreams can never be made captive.

My eager hands press emptiness to

my heart and it bruises my breast.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 41

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I

dare not, for fear you should laugh.

That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.

I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I

dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.

That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of

what I mean.

I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare

not, fearing I should not be paid with like value.

That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous

strength.

I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come

out at my lips.

That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart

behind words.

I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my

cowardice should become known to you.

That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your

presence.

Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 55

It was mid-day when you went

away .

The sun was strong in the sky.

I had done my work and sat alone

on my balcony when you went away.

Fitful gusts came winnowing

through the smells of may distant

fields.

The doves cooed tireless in the shade,

and a bee strayed in my room hum-

ming the news of many distant fields.

The village slept in the noonday

heat. The road lay deserted.

In sudden fits the rustling of the

leaves rose and died.

I gazed at the sky and wove in the

blue the letters of a name I had known,

while the village slept in the noonday

heat.

I had forgotten to braid my hair.

The languid breeze played with it upon

my cheek.

The river ran unruffled under the

shady bank.

The lazy white clouds did not move.

I had forgotten to braid my hair.

It was mid-day when you went

away.

The dust of the road was hot and

the fields panting.

The doves cooed among the dense

leaves.

I was alone in my balcony when you

went away.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 57

I plucked your flower, O world!

I pressed it to my heart and the

thorn pricked.

When the day waned and it

darkened, I found that the flower had

faded, but the pain remained.

More flowers will come to you with

perfume and pride, O world!

But my time for flower-gathering

is over, and through the dark night

I have not my rose, only the pain

remains.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 61

Peace, my heart, let the time for

the parting be sweet.

Let it not be a death but completeness.

Let love melt into memory and pain

into songs.

Let the flight through the sky end

in the folding of the wings over the

nest.

Let the last touch of your hands be

gentle like the flower of the night.

Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a

moment, and say your last words in

silence.

I bow to you and hold up my lamp

to light you on your way.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 64

I spent my day on the scorching

hot dust of the road.

Now, in the cool of the evening,

I knock at the door of the inn.

It is deserted and in ruins.

A grim ashath tree spreads its

hungry clutching roots through the

gaping fissures of the walls.

Days have been when wayfarers

came here to wash their weary feet.

They spread their mats in the

courtyard in the dim light of the

early moon, and sat and talked of

strange lands.

They woke refreshed in the morning

when birds made them glad, and

friendly flowers nodded their heads

at them from the wayside.

But no lighted lamp awaited me

when I came here.

The black smudges of smoke left by

many a forgotten evening lamp stare,

like blind eyes, from the wall.

Fireflies flit in the bush near the

dried-up pond, and bamboo branches

fling their shadows on the grass-

grown path.

I am the guest of no one at the end

of my day.

The long night is before me, and I

am tired.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 69

I hunt for the golden stag.

You may smile, my friends, but I

pursue the vision that eludes me.

I run across hills and dales, I wander

through nameless lands, because I am

hunting for the golden stag.

You come and buy in the market

and go back to your homes laden with

goods, but the spell of the homeless

winds has touched me I know not when

and where.

I have no care in my heart; all my

belongings I have left far behind me.

I run across hills and dales, I wander

through nameless lands--because I am

hunting for the golden stag.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 68

None lives for ever, brother, and

nothing lasts for long. Keep that in

mind and rejoice.

Our life is not the one old burden,

our path is not the one long

journey.

One sole poet has not to sing one

aged song.

The flower fades and dies; but he

who wears the flower has not to

mourn for it for ever.

Brother, keep that in mind and

rejoice.

There must come a full pause to

weave perfection into music.

Life droops toward its sunset to be

drowned in the golden shadows.

Love must be called from its play

to drink sorrow and be borne to the

heaven of tears.

Brother, keep that in min and

rejoice.

We hasten to gather our flowers lest

they are plundered by the passing

winds.

It quickens our blood and brightens

our eyes to snatch kisses that would

vanish if we delayed.

Our life is eager, our desires are keen,

for time tolls the bell of parting.

Brother, keep that in mind and

rejoice.

There is not time for us to clasp a

thing and crush it and fling it away to

the dust.

The hours trip rapidly away, hiding

their dreams in their skirts.

Our life is short; it yields but a

few days for love.

Were it for work and drudgery it

would be endlessly long.

Brother, keep that in mind and

rejoice.

Beauty is sweet to us, because she

dances to the same fleeting tune with

our lives.

Knowledge is precious to us, because

we shall never have time to

complete it.

All is done and finished in the eternal

Heaven.

But earth's flowers of illusion are

kept eternally fresh by death.

Brother, keep that in mind and

rejoice.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 79

I often wonder where lie hidden

the boundaries of recognition between

man and the beast whose heart knows

no spoken language.

Through what primal paradise in a

remote morning of creation ran the

simple path by which their hearts

visited each other.

Those marks of their constant tread

have not been effaced though their

kinship has been long forgotten.

Yet suddenly in some wordless

music the dim memory wakes up

and the beast gazes into the man's

face with a tender trust, and the

man looks down into its eyes with

amused affection.

It seems that the two friends meet

masked, and vaguely know each other

through the disguise.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 38

My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his mind.

Alas, I was not careful, and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief.

It broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet.

All my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank.

You must make this loss good to me, my love.

If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, make me immortal while I live.

And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 11

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

If your braided hair has loosened if

the parting of your hair be not straight,

if the ribbons of your bodice be not

fastened, do not mind.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

Come, with quick steps over the

grass.

If the raddle come from your feet

because of the dew, of the rings of bells

upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop

out of your chain, do not mind.

Come, with quick steps over the

grass.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the

sky?

Flocks of cranes fly up from the

further river-bank and fitful gusts of

wind rush over the heath.

The anxious cattle run to their stalls

in the village.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the

sky?

In vain you light your toilet lamp

--it flickers and goes out in the

wind.

Who can know that your eyelids

have not been touched with lamp-

black? For your eyes are darker

than rain-clouds.

In vain you light your toilet lamp--

it goes out.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

If the wreath is not woven, who

cares; if the wrist-chain had not been

linked, let it be.

The sky is overcast with clouds--it

is late.

Come as you are; do not loiter over

your toilet.

Rabindranath Tagore – Unending Love

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times...

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,

That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,

In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it's age old pain,

It's ancient tale of being apart or together.

As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,

Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.

You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.

At the heart of time, love of one for another.

We have played along side millions of lovers,

Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,

the distressful tears of farewell,

Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 4

Ah me, why did they build my

house by the road to the market

town?

They moor their laden boats near

my trees.

They come and go and wander at

their will.

I sit and watch them; my time

wears on.

Turn them away I cannot. And

thus my days pass by.

Night and day their steps sound

by my door.

Vainly I cry, "I do not know

you."

Some of them are known to my

fingers, some to my nostrils, the

blood in my veins seems to know

them, and some are known to my

dreams.

Turn them away I cannot. I call

them and say, "Come to my house

whoever chooses. Yes, come."

In the morning the bell rings in the

temple.

They come with their baskets in

their hands.

Their feet are rosy red. The early

light of dawn is on their faces.

Turn them away I cannot. I call

them and I say, "Come to my garden

to gather flowers. Come hither."

In the mid-day the gong sounds

at the palace gate.

I know not why they leave their

work and linger near my hedge.

The flowers in their hair are pale

and faded; the notes are languid in

their flutes.

Turn them away I cannot. I call

them and say, "The shade is cool

under my trees. Come, friends."

At night the crickets chirp in the

woods.

Who is it that comes slowly to my

door and gently knocks?

I vaguely see the face, not a word

is spoken, the stillness of the sky is

all around.

Turn away my silent guest I

cannot. I look at the face through the

dark, and hours of dreams pass by.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 9

When I go alone at night to my

love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind

does not stir, the houses on both sides

of the street stand silent.

It is my own anklets that grow loud

at every step and I am ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen

for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle

on the trees, and the water is still in

the river like the sword on the knees

of a sentry fallen asleep.

It is my own heart that beats wildly

--I do not know how to quiet it.

When my love comes and sits by

my side, when my body trembles and

my eyelids droop, the night darkens,

the wind blows out the lamp, and the

clouds draw veils over the stars.

It is the jewel at my own breast

that shines and gives light. I do not

know how to hide it.

Rabindranath Tagore – Freedom

Freedom from fear is the freedom

I claim for you my motherland!

Freedom from the burden of the ages, bending your head,

breaking your back, blinding your eyes to the beckoning

call of the future;

Freedom from the shackles of slumber wherewith

you fasten yourself in night's stillness,

mistrusting the star that speaks of truth's adventurous paths;

freedom from the anarchy of destiny

whole sails are weakly yielded to the blind uncertain winds,

and the helm to a hand ever rigid and cold as death.

Freedom from the insult of dwelling in a puppet's world,

where movements are started through brainless wires,

repeated through mindless habits,

where figures wait with patience and obedience for the

master of show,

to be stirred into a mimicry of life.

Rabindranath Tagore – Friend

Art thou abroad on this stormy night

on thy journey of love, my friend?

The sky groans like one in despair.

I have no sleep tonight.

Ever and again I open my door and look out on

the darkness, my friend!

I can see nothing before me.

I wonder where lies thy path!

By what dim shore of the ink-black river,

by what far edge of the frowning forest,

through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading

thy course to come to me, my friend?

Rabindranath Tagore – Lost Time

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.

But it is never lost, my lord.

Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,

buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed

and imagined all work had ceased.

In the morning I woke up

and found my garden full with wonders of flowers.

Rabindranath Tagore – Little Of Me

Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may name thee my all.

Let only that little be left of my will

whereby I may feel thee on every side,

and come to thee in everything,

and offer to thee my love every moment.

Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may never hide thee.

Let only that little of my fetters be left

whereby I am bound with thy will,

and thy purpose is carried out in my life

and that is the fetter of thy love.

Rabindranath Tagore – Lamp Of Love

Light, oh where is the light?

Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!

There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame---is such thy fate, my heart?

Ah, death were better by far for thee!

Misery knocks at thy door,

and her message is that thy lord is wakeful,

and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of night.

The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless.

I know not what this is that stirs in me---I know not its meaning.

A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight,

and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me.

Light, oh where is the light!

Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!

It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void.

The night is black as a black stone.

Let not the hours pass by in the dark.

Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.