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Gitanjali Tagore, Rabindranath, 1861-1941 Release date: 2004-12-01 Source: Bebook

Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Speech of Ramai

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Page 1: Dr. Babasaheb Ambedkar Speech of Ramai

GitanjaliTagore, Rabindranath, 1861-1941

Release date: 2004-12-01Source: Bebook

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Originally scanned at sacred-texts.com byJohn B. Hare. This eBook was produced byChetan Jain, Viswas G and Anand Rao atBharat Literature

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The Gitanjali or 'song offerings' byRabindranath Tagore (1861--1941), Nobelprize for literature 1913, with anintroduction by William B. Yeats(1865--1939), Nobel prize for literature1923. First published in 1913.

This work is in public domain according tothe Berne convention since January 1st1992.

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RABINDRANATH TAGORE

GITANJALI

Song Offerings

A collection of prose translations made bythe author from the original Bengali

With an introduction by W. B. YEATS toWILLIAM ROTHENSTEIN

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INTRODUCTION

A few days ago I said to a distinguishedBengali doctor of medicine, 'I know noGerman, yet if a translation of a Germanpoet had moved me, I would go to theBritish Museum and find books in Englishthat would tell me something of his life,and of the history of his thought. Butthough these prose translations fromRabindranath Tagore have stirred myblood as nothing has for years, I shall notknow anything of his life, and of themovements of thought that have madethem possible, if some Indian traveller willnot tell me.' It seemed to him natural that Ishould be moved, for he said, 'I readRabindranath every day, to read one lineof his is to forget all the troubles of theworld.' I said, 'An Englishman living inLondon in the reign of Richard the Second

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had he been shown translations fromPetrarch or from Dante, would have foundno books to answer his questions, butwould have questioned some Florentinebanker or Lombard merchant as I questionyou. For all I know, so abundant andsimple is this poetry, the new renaissancehas been born in your country and I shallnever know of it except by hearsay.' Heanswered, 'We have other poets, but nonethat are his equal; we call this the epoch ofRabindranath. No poet seems to me asfamous in Europe as he is among us. He isas great in music as in poetry, and hissongs are sung from the west of India intoBurma wherever Bengali is spoken. Hewas already famous at nineteen when hewrote his first novel; and plays when hewas but little older, are still played inCalcutta. I so much admire thecompleteness of his life; when he was veryyoung he wrote much of natural objects,

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he would sit all day in his garden; from histwenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifthperhaps, when he had a great sorrow, hewrote the most beautiful love poetry in ourlanguage'; and then he said with deepemotion, 'words can never express what Iowed at seventeen to his love poetry.After that his art grew deeper, it becamereligious and philosophical; all theinspiration of mankind are in his hymns.He is the first among our saints who has notrefused to live, but has spoken out of Lifeitself, and that is why we give him ourlove.' I may have changed his well-chosenwords in my memory but not his thought.'A little while ago he was to read divineservice in one of our churches--we of theBrahma Samaj use your word 'church' inEnglish--it was the largest in Calcutta andnot only was it crowded, but the streetswere all but impassable because of thepeople.'

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Other Indians came to see me and theirreverence for this man sounded strange inour world, where we hide great and littlethings under the same veil of obviouscomedy and half-serious depreciation.When we were making the cathedrals hadwe a like reverence for our great men?'Every morning at three--I know, for I haveseen it'--one said to me, 'he sits immovablein contemplation, and for two hours doesnot awake from his reverie upon the natureof God. His father, the Maha Rishi, wouldsometimes sit there all through the nextday; once, upon a river, he fell intocontemplation because of the beauty of thelandscape, and the rowers waited for eighthours before they could continue theirjourney.' He then told me of Mr. Tagore'sfamily and how for generations great menhave come out of its cradles. 'Today,' hesaid, 'there are Gogonendranath and

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Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists;and Dwijendranath, Rabindranath'sbrother, who is a great philosopher. Thesquirrels come from the boughs and climbon to his knees and the birds alight uponhis hands.' I notice in these men's thoughta sense of visible beauty and meaning asthough they held that doctrine of Nietzschethat we must not believe in the moral orintellectual beauty which does not sooneror later impress itself upon physical things.I said, 'In the East you know how to keep a

family illustrious. The other day thecurator of a museum pointed out to me alittle dark-skinned man who was arrangingtheir Chinese prints and said, ''That is thehereditary connoisseur of the Mikado, heis the fourteenth of his family to hold thepost.'' 'He answered, 'When Rabindranathwas a boy he had all round him in his homeliterature and music.' I thought of theabundance, of the simplicity of the poems,

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and said, 'In your country is there muchpropagandist writing, much criticism? Wehave to do so much, especially in my owncountry, that our minds gradually cease tobe creative, and yet we cannot help it. Ifour life was not a continual warfare, wewould not have taste, we would not knowwhat is good, we would not find hearersand readers. Four-fifths of our energy isspent in the quarrel with bad taste,whether in our own minds or in the mindsof others.' 'I understand,' he replied, 'wetoo have our propagandist writing. In thevillages they recite long mythologicalpoems adapted from the Sanskrit in theMiddle Ages, and they often insertpassages telling the people that they mustdo their duties.'

I have carried the manuscript of thesetranslations about with me for days,reading it in railway trains, or on the top of

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omnibuses and in restaurants, and I haveoften had to close it lest some strangerwould see how much it moved me. Theselyrics-- which are in the original, myIndians tell me, full of subtlety of rhythm,of untranslatable delicacies of colour, ofmetrical invention--display in their thoughta world I have dreamed of all my live long.The work of a supreme culture, they yet

appear as much the growth of the commonsoil as the grass and the rushes. Atradition, where poetry and religion arethe same thing, has passed through thecenturies, gathering from learned andunlearned metaphor and emotion, andcarried back again to the multitude thethought of the scholar and of the noble. Ifthe civilization of Bengal remainsunbroken, if that common mind which--asone divines--runs through all, is not, aswith us, broken into a dozen minds thatknow nothing of each other, something

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even of what is most subtle in these verseswill have come, in a few generations, tothe beggar on the roads. When there wasbut one mind in England, Chaucer wrotehis _Troilus and Cressida_, and thought hehad written to be read, or to be readout--for our time was coming on apace--hewas sung by minstrels for a while.Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer'sforerunners, writes music for his words,and one understands at every moment thathe is so abundant, so spontaneous, sodaring in his passion, so full of surprise,because he is doing something which hasnever seemed strange, unnatural, or inneed of defence. These verses will not liein little well-printed books upon ladies'tables, who turn the pages with indolenthands that they may sigh over a lifewithout meaning, which is yet all they canknow of life, or be carried by students atthe university to be laid aside when the

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work of life begins, but, as the generationspass, travellers will hum them on thehighway and men rowing upon the rivers.Lovers, while they await one another, shallfind, in murmuring them, this love of God amagic gulf wherein their own more bitterpassion may bathe and renew its youth. Atevery moment the heart of this poet flowsoutward to these without derogation orcondescension, for it has known that theywill understand; and it has filled itself withthe circumstance of their lives. Thetraveller in the read-brown clothes that hewears that dust may not show upon him,the girl searching in her bed for the petalsfallen from the wreath of her royal lover,the servant or the bride awaiting themaster's home-coming in the empty house,are images of the heart turning to God.Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conchshells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, orthe moods of that heart in union or in

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separation; and a man sitting in a boatupon a river playing lute, like one of thosefigures full of mysterious meaning in aChinese picture, is God Himself. A wholepeople, a whole civilization, immeasurablystrange to us, seems to have been taken upinto this imagination; and yet we are notmoved because of its strangeness, butbecause we have met our own image, asthough we had walked in Rossetti's willowwood, or heard, perhaps for the first timein literature, our voice as in a dream.

Since the Renaissance the writing ofEuropean saints--however familiar theirmetaphor and the general structure oftheir thought--has ceased to hold ourattention. We know that we must at lastforsake the world, and we are accustomedin moments of weariness or exaltation toconsider a voluntary forsaking; but howcan we, who have read so much poetry,

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seen so many paintings, listened to somuch music, where the cry of the flesh andthe cry of the soul seems one, forsake itharshly and rudely? What have we incommon with St. Bernard covering hiseyes that they may not dwell upon thebeauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or withthe violent rhetoric of the Book ofRevelations? We would, if we might, find,as in this book, words full of courtesy. 'Ihave got my leave. Bid me farewell, mybrothers! I bow to you all and take mydeparture. Here I give back the keys ofmy door--and I give up all claims to myhouse. I only ask for last kind words fromyou. We were neighbours for long, but Ireceived more than I could give. Now theday has dawned and the lamp that lit mydark corner is out. A summons has comeand I am ready for my journey.' And it isour own mood, when it is furthest from 'aKempis or John of the Cross, that cries,

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'And because I love this life, I know I shalllove death as well.' Yet it is not only in ourthoughts of the parting that this bookfathoms all. We had not known that weloved God, hardly it may be that webelieved in Him; yet looking backwardupon our life we discover, in ourexploration of the pathways of woods, inour delight in the lonely places of hills, inthat mysterious claim that we have made,unavailingly on the woman that we haveloved, the emotion that created thisinsidious sweetness. 'Entering my heartunbidden even as one of the commoncrowd, unknown to me, my king, thoudidst press the signet of eternity uponmany a fleeting moment.' This is no longerthe sanctity of the cell and of the scourge;being but a lifting up, as it were, into agreater intensity of the mood of thepainter, painting the dust and the sunlight,and we go for a like voice to St. Francis

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and to William Blake who have seemed soalien in our violent history.

We write long books where no pageperhaps has any quality to make writing apleasure, being confident in some generaldesign, just as we fight and make moneyand fill our heads with politics--all dullthings in the doing--while Mr. Tagore, likethe Indian civilization itself, has beencontent to discover the soul and surrenderhimself to its spontaneity. He often seemsto contrast life with that of those who haveloved more after our fashion, and havemore seeming weight in the world, andalways humbly as though he were onlysure his way is best for him: 'Men goinghome glance at me and smile and fill mewith shame. I sit like a beggar maid,drawing my skirt over my face, and whenthey ask me, what it is I want, I drop myeyes and answer them not.' At another

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time, remembering how his life had once adifferent shape, he will say, 'Many an hourI have spent in the strife of the good andthe evil, but now it is the pleasure of myplaymate of the empty days to draw myheart on to him; and I know not why thissudden call to what uselessinconsequence.' An innocence, asimplicity that one does not find elsewherein literature makes the birds and theleaves seem as near to him as they arenear to children, and the changes of theseasons great events as before ourthoughts had arisen between them and us.At times I wonder if he has it from theliterature of Bengal or from religion, and atother times, remembering the birdsalighting on his brother's hands, I findpleasure in thinking it hereditary, amystery that was growing through thecenturies like the courtesy of a Tristan or aPelanore. Indeed, when he is speaking of

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children, so much a part of himself thisquality seems, one is not certain that he isnot also speaking of the saints, 'They buildtheir houses with sand and they play withempty shells. With withered leaves theyweave their boats and smilingly float themon the vast deep. Children have their playon the seashore of worlds. They know nothow to swim, they know not how to castnets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls,merchants sail in their ships, whilechildren gather pebbles and scatter themagain. They seek not for hidden treasures,they know not how to cast nets.'

W.B. YEATS _September 1912_

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GITANJALI

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Thou hast made me endless, such is thypleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiestagain and again, and fillest it ever withfresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carriedover hills and dales, and hast breathedthrough it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my littleheart loses its limits in joy and gives birthto utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on thesevery small hands of mine. Ages pass, andstill thou pourest, and still there is room tofill.

When thou commandest me to sing itseems that my heart would break withpride; and I look to thy face, and tears

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come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my lifemelts into one sweet harmony--and myadoration spreads wings like a glad birdon its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing.I know that only as a singer I come beforethy presence.

I touch by the edge of the far-spreadingwing of my song thy feet which I couldnever aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing I forgetmyself and call thee friend who art mylord.

I know not how thou singest, my master! Iever listen in silent amazement.

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The light of thy music illumines the world.The life breath of thy music runs from skyto sky. The holy stream of thy musicbreaks through all stony obstacles andrushes on.

My heart longs to join in thy song, butvainly struggles for a voice. I wouldspeak, but speech breaks not into song,and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast mademy heart captive in the endless meshes ofthy music, my master!

Life of my life, I shall ever try to keep mybody pure, knowing that thy living touch isupon all my limbs.

I shall ever try to keep all untruths out frommy thoughts, knowing that thou art thattruth which has kindled the light of reason

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in my mind.

I shall ever try to drive all evils away frommy heart and keep my love in flower,knowing that thou hast thy seat in theinmost shrine of my heart.

And it shall be my endeavour to revealthee in my actions, knowing it is thy powergives me strength to act.

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit bythy side. The works that I have in hand Iwill finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heartknows no rest nor respite, and my workbecomes an endless toil in a shoreless seaof toil.

Today the summer has come at my window

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with its sighs and murmurs; and the beesare plying their minstrelsy at the court ofthe flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face withthee, and to sing dedication of live in thissilent and overflowing leisure.

Pluck this little flower and take it, delaynot! I fear lest it droop and drop into thedust.

I may not find a place in thy garland, buthonour it with a touch of pain from thyhand and pluck it. I fear lest the day endbefore I am aware, and the time of offeringgo by.

Though its colour be not deep and its smellbe faint, use this flower in thy service andpluck it while there is time.

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My song has put off her adornments. Shehas no pride of dress and decoration.Ornaments would mar our union; theywould come between thee and me; theirjingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet's vanity dies in shame before thysight. O master poet, I have sat down atthy feet. Only let me make my life simpleand straight, like a flute of reed for thee tofill with music.

The child who is decked with prince'srobes and who has jewelled chains roundhis neck loses all pleasure in his play; hisdress hampers him at every step.

In fear that it may be frayed, or stainedwith dust he keeps himself from the world,

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and is afraid even to move.

Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage offinery, if it keep one shut off from thehealthful dust of the earth, if it rob one ofthe right of entrance to the great fair ofcommon human life.

O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy ownshoulders! O beggar, to come beg at thyown door!

Leave all thy burdens on his hands whocan bear all, and never look behind inregret.

Thy desire at once puts out the light fromthe lamp it touches with its breath. It isunholy--take not thy gifts through itsunclean hands. Accept only what isoffered by sacred love.

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Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feetwhere live the poorest, and lowliest, andlost.

When I try to bow to thee, my obeisancecannot reach down to the depth where thyfeet rest among the poorest, and lowliest,and lost.

Pride can never approach to where thouwalkest in the clothes of the humbleamong the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

My heart can never find its way to wherethou keepest company with thecompanionless among the poorest, thelowliest, and the lost.

Leave this chanting and singing and telling

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of beads! Whom dost thou worship in thislonely dark corner of a temple with doorsall shut? Open thine eyes and see thy Godis not before thee!

He is there where the tiller is tilling thehard ground and where the pathmaker isbreaking stones. He is with them in sunand in shower, and his garment is coveredwith dust. Put of thy holy mantle and evenlike him come down on the dusty soil!

Deliverance? Where is this deliverance tobe found? Our master himself has joyfullytaken upon him the bonds of creation; he isbound with us all for ever.

Come out of thy meditations and leaveaside thy flowers and incense! What harmis there if thy clothes become tattered andstained? Meet him and stand by him in toiland in sweat of thy brow.

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The time that my journey takes is long andthe way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleamof light, and pursued my voyage throughthe wildernesses of worlds leaving mytrack on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comesnearest to thyself, and that training is themost intricate which leads to the uttersimplicity of a tune.

The traveller has to knock at every aliendoor to come to his own, and one has towander through all the outer worlds toreach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I shutthem and said 'Here art thou!'

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The question and the cry 'Oh, where?' meltinto tears of a thousand streams anddeluge the world with the flood of theassurance 'I am!'

The song that I came to sing remainsunsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and inunstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the wordshave not been rightly set; only there is theagony of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened; only thewind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face, nor have I listenedto his voice; only I have heard his gentle

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footsteps from the road before my house.

The livelong day has passed in spreadinghis seat on the floor; but the lamp has notbeen lit and I cannot ask him into myhouse.

I live in the hope of meeting with him; butthis meeting is not yet.

My desires are many and my cry is pitiful,but ever didst thou save me by hardrefusals; and this strong mercy has beenwrought into my life through and through.

Day by day thou art making me worthy ofthe simple, great gifts that thou gavest tome unasked--this sky and the light, thisbody and the life and the mind--saving mefrom perils of overmuch desire.

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There are times when I languidly lingerand times when I awaken and hurry insearch of my goal; but cruelly thou hidestthyself from before me.

Day by day thou art making me worthy ofthy full acceptance by refusing me everand anon, saving me from perils of weak,uncertain desire.

I am here to sing thee songs. In this hall ofthine I have a corner seat.

In thy world I have no work to do; myuseless life can only break out in tuneswithout a purpose.

When the hour strikes for thy silentworship at the dark temple of midnight,command me, my master, to stand beforethee to sing.

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When in the morning air the golden harp istuned, honour me, commanding mypresence.

I have had my invitation to this world'sfestival, and thus my life has been blessed.

My eyes have seen and my ears haveheard.

It was my part at this feast to play upon myinstrument, and I have done all I could.

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

I am only waiting for love to give myself upat last into his hands. That is why it is solate and why I have been guilty of such

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omissions.

They come with their laws and their codesto bind me fast; but I evade them ever, for Iam only waiting for love to give myself upat last into his hands.

People blame me and call me heedless; Idoubt not they are right in their blame.

The market day is over and work is alldone for the busy. Those who came to callme in vain have gone back in anger. I amonly waiting for love to give myself up atlast into his hands.

Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens.Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outsideat the door all alone?

In the busy moments of the noontide work I

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am with the crowd, but on this dark lonelyday it is only for thee that I hope.

If thou showest me not thy face, if thouleavest me wholly aside, I know not how Iam to pass these long, rainy hours.

I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of thesky, and my heart wanders wailing withthe restless wind.

If thou speakest not I will fill my heart withthy silence and endure it. I will keep stilland wait like the night with starry vigil andits head bent low with patience.

The morning will surely come, thedarkness will vanish, and thy voice pourdown in golden streams breaking throughthe sky.

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Then thy words will take wing in songsfrom every one of my birds' nests, and thymelodies will break forth in flowers in allmy forest groves.

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

Only now and again a sadness fell uponme, and I started up from my dream andfelt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance inthe south wind.

That vague sweetness made my heart achewith longing and it seemed to me that iswas the eager breath of the summerseeking for its completion.

I knew not then that it was so near, that it

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was mine, and that this perfect sweetnesshad blossomed in the depth of my ownheart.

I must launch out my boat. The languidhours pass by on the shore--Alas for me!

The spring has done its flowering andtaken leave. And now with the burden offaded futile flowers I wait and linger.

The waves have become clamorous, andupon the bank in the shady lane the yellowleaves flutter and fall.

What emptiness do you gaze upon! Doyou not feel a thrill passing through the airwith the notes of the far-away song floatingfrom the other shore?

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In the deep shadows of the rainy July, withsecret steps, thou walkest, silent as night,eluding all watchers.

Today the morning has closed its eyes,heedless of the insistent calls of the loudeast wind, and a thick veil has been drawnover 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 thisdeserted street. Oh my only friend, mybest beloved, the gates are open in myhouse--do not pass by like a dream.

Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thyjourney of love, my friend? The skygroans like one in despair.

I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I

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open my door and look out on thedarkness, my friend!

I can see nothing before me. I wonderwhere 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 thouthreading thy course to come to me, myfriend?

If the day is done, if birds sing no more, ifthe wind has flagged tired, then draw theveil of darkness thick upon me, even asthou hast wrapt the earth with the coverletof sleep and tenderly closed the petals ofthe drooping lotus at dusk.

From the traveller, whose sack ofprovisions is empty before the voyage is

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ended, whose garment is torn anddustladen, whose strength is exhausted,remove shame and poverty, and renew hislife like a flower under the cover of thykindly night.

In the night of weariness let me givemyself up to sleep without struggle,resting my trust upon thee.

Let me not force my flagging spirit into apoor preparation for thy worship.

It is thou who drawest the veil of nightupon the tired eyes of the day to renew itssight in a fresher gladness of awakening.

He came and sat by my side but I wokenot. What a cursed sleep it was, Omiserable me!

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He came when the night was still; he hadhis harp in his hands, and my dreamsbecame resonant with its melodies.

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

Light, oh where is the light? Kindle it withthe burning fire of desire!

There is the lamp but never a flicker of aflame--is such thy fate, my heart? Ah,death were better by far for thee!

Misery knocks at thy door, and hermessage is that thy lord is wakeful, and hecalls thee to the love-tryst through thedarkness of night.

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The sky is overcast with clouds and therain is ceaseless. I know not what this isthat stirs in me--I know not its meaning.

A moment's flash of lightning drags down adeeper gloom on my sight, and my heartgropes for the path to where the music ofthe night calls me.

Light, oh where is the light! Kindle it withthe burning fire of desire! It thunders andthe wind rushes screaming through thevoid. 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.

Obstinate are the trammels, but my heartaches when I try to break them.

Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it Ifeel ashamed.

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I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee,and that thou art my best friend, but I havenot the heart to sweep away the tinsel thatfills my room

The shroud that covers me is a shroud ofdust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.

My debts are large, my failures great, myshame secret and heavy; yet when I cometo ask for my good, I quake in fear lest myprayer be granted.

He whom I enclose with my name isweeping in this dungeon. I am ever busybuilding this wall all around; and as thiswall goes up into the sky day by day I losesight of my true being in its dark shadow.

I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster

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it with dust and sand lest a least holeshould be left in this name; and for all thecare I take I lose sight of my true being.

I came out alone on my way to my tryst.But who is this that follows me in the silentdark?

I move aside to avoid his presence but Iescape him not.

He makes the dust rise from the earth withhis swagger; he adds his loud voice toevery word that I utter.

He is my own little self, my lord, he knowsno shame; but I am ashamed to come to thydoor in his company.

'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that bound

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you?'

'It was my master,' said the prisoner. 'Ithought I could outdo everybody in theworld in wealth and power, and I amassedin my own treasure-house the money dueto my king. When sleep overcame me Ilay upon the bed that was for my lord, andon waking up I found I was a prisoner inmy own treasure-house.'

'Prisoner, tell me, who was it that wroughtthis unbreakable chain?'

'It was I,' said the prisoner, 'who forged thischain very carefully. I thought myinvincible power would hold the worldcaptive leaving me in a freedomundisturbed. Thus night and day I workedat the chain with huge fires and cruel hardstrokes. When at last the work was doneand the links were complete and

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unbreakable, I found that it held me in itsgrip.'

By all means they try to hold me securewho love me in this world. But it isotherwise with thy love which is greaterthan theirs, and thou keepest me free.

Lest I forget them they never venture toleave me alone. But day passes by afterday and thou art not seen.

If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep notthee in my heart, thy love for me still waitsfor my love.

When it was day they came into my houseand said, 'We shall only take the smallestroom here.'

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They said, 'We shall help you in theworship of your God and humbly acceptonly our own share in his grace'; and thenthey took their seat in a corner and they satquiet and meek.

But in the darkness of night I find theybreak into my sacred shrine, strong andturbulent, and snatch with unholy greedthe offerings from God's altar.

Let only that little be left of me whereby Imay name thee my all.

Let only that little be left of my willwhereby I may feel thee on every side,and come to thee in everything, and offerto thee my love every moment.

Let only that little be left of me whereby Imay never hide thee.

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Let only that little of my fetters be leftwhereby I am bound with thy will, and thypurpose is carried out in my life--and thatis the fetter of thy love.

Where the mind is without fear and thehead is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken upinto fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth oftruth;

Where tireless striving stretches its armstowards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not

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lost its way into the dreary desert sand ofdead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee intoever-widening thought and action--

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, letmy country awake.

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 myjoys and sorrows.

Give me the strength to make my lovefruitful in service.

Give me the strength never to disown thepoor or bend my knees before insolentmight.

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Give me the strength to raise my mindhigh above daily trifles.

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

I thought that my voyage had come to itsend at the last limit of my power,--that thepath before me was closed, that provisionswere exhausted and the time come to takeshelter 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, newcountry is revealed with its wonders.

That I want thee, only thee--let my heart

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repeat without end. All desires that distractme, day and night, are false and empty tothe core.

As the night keeps hidden in its gloom thepetition for light, even thus in the depth ofmy unconsciousness rings the cry--'I wantthee, only thee'.

As the storm still seeks its end in peacewhen it strikes against peace with all itsmight, even thus my rebellion strikesagainst thy love and still its cry is--'I wantthee, 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 aburst of song.

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When tumultuous work raises its din on allsides shutting me out from beyond, cometo me, my lord of silence, with thy peaceand rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched,shut up in a corner, break open the door,my king, and come with the ceremony of aking.

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

The rain has held back for days and days,my God, in my arid heart. The horizon isfiercely naked--not the thinnest cover of asoft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distantcool shower.

Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it

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is thy wish, and with lashes of lightningstartle the sky from end to end.

But call back, my lord, call back thispervading silent heat, still and keen andcruel, burning the heart with dire despair.

Let the cloud of grace bend low fromabove like the tearful look of the mother onthe day of the father's wrath.

Where dost thou stand behind them all, mylover, hiding thyself in the shadows? Theypush thee and pass thee by on the dustyroad, taking thee for naught. I wait hereweary hours spreading my offerings forthee, while passers-by come and take myflowers, one by one, and my basket isnearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the noon. In

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the shade of evening my eyes are drowsywith sleep. Men going home glance at meand smile and fill me with shame. I sit likea beggar maid, drawing my skirt over myface, and when they ask me, what it is Iwant, I drop my eyes and answer them not.

Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that forthee I wait, and that thou hast promised tocome. How could I utter for shame that Ikeep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hugthis pride in the secret of my heart.

I sit on the grass and gaze upon the skyand dream of the sudden splendour of thycoming--all the lights ablaze, goldenpennons flying over thy car, and they atthe roadside standing agape, when theysee thee come down from thy seat to raiseme from the dust, and set at thy side thisragged beggar girl a-tremble with shameand pride, like a creeper in a summer

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breeze.

But time glides on and still no sound of thewheels of thy chariot. Many a processionpasses by with noise and shouts andglamour of glory. Is it only thou whowouldst stand in the shadow silent andbehind them all? And only I who wouldwait and weep and wear out my heart invain longing?

Early in the day it was whispered that weshould sail in a boat, only thou and I, andnever a soul in the world would know ofthis our pilgrimage to no country and to noend.

In that shoreless ocean, at thy silentlylistening smile my songs would swell inmelodies, free as waves, free from allbondage of words.

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Is the time not come yet? Are there worksstill to do? Lo, the evening has come downupon the shore and in the fading light theseabirds come flying to their nests.

Who knows when the chains will be off,and the boat, like the last glimmer ofsunset, vanish into the night?

The day was when I did not keep myself inreadiness for thee; and entering my heartunbidden even as one of the commoncrowd, unknown to me, my king, thoudidst press the signet of eternity uponmany a fleeting moment of my life.

And today when by chance I light uponthem and see thy signature, I find theyhave lain scattered in the dust mixed withthe memory of joys and sorrows of my

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trivial days forgotten.

Thou didst not turn in contempt from mychildish play among dust, and the stepsthat I heard in my playroom are the samethat are echoing from star to star.

This is my delight, thus to wait and watchat the wayside where shadow chases lightand the rain comes in the wake of thesummer.

Messengers, with tidings from unknownskies, greet me and speed along the road.My heart is glad within, and the breath ofthe passing breeze is sweet.

From dawn till dusk I sit here before mydoor, and I know that of a sudden thehappy moment will arrive when I shall see.

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In the meanwhile I smile and I sing allalone. In the meanwhile the air is fillingwith the perfume of promise.

Have you not heard his silent steps? Hecomes, comes, ever comes.

Every moment and every age, every dayand every night he comes, comes, evercomes.

Many a song have I sung in many a moodof mind, but all their notes have alwaysproclaimed, 'He comes, comes, evercomes.'

In the fragrant days of sunny April throughthe forest path he comes, comes, evercomes.

In the rainy gloom of July nights on the

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thundering chariot of clouds he comes,comes, ever comes.

In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps thatpress upon my heart, and it is the goldentouch of his feet that makes my joy toshine.

I know not from what distant time thou artever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sunand stars can never keep thee hidden fromme for aye.

In many a morning and eve thy footstepshave been heard and thy messenger hascome within my heart and called me insecret.

I know not only why today my life is allastir, and a feeling of tremulous joy ispassing through my heart.

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It is as if the time were come to wind up mywork, and I feel in the air a faint smell ofthy sweet presence.

The night is nearly spent waiting for him invain. I fear lest in the morning hesuddenly come to my door when I havefallen asleep wearied out. Oh friends,leave the way open to him-- forbid him not.

If the sounds of his steps does not wakeme, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wishnot to be called from my sleep by theclamorous choir of birds, by the riot ofwind at the festival of morning light. Letme sleep undisturbed even if my lordcomes of a sudden to my door.

Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which onlywaits for his touch to vanish. Ah, my

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closed eyes that would open their lids onlyto the light of his smile when he standsbefore me like a dream emerging fromdarkness of sleep.

Let him appear before my sight as the firstof all lights and all forms. The first thrill ofjoy to my awakened soul let it come fromhis glance. And let my return to myself beimmediate return to him.

The morning sea of silence broke intoripples of bird songs; and the flowers wereall merry by the roadside; and the wealthof gold was scattered through the rift of theclouds while we busily went on our wayand paid no heed.

We sang no glad songs nor played; wewent not to the village for barter; we spokenot a word nor smiled; we lingered not on

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the way. We quickened our pace moreand more as the time sped by.

The sun rose to the mid sky and dovescooed in the shade. Withered leavesdanced and whirled in the hot air of noon.The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamedin the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laidmyself down by the water and stretchedmy 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; theyvanished in the distant blue haze. Theycrossed many meadows and hills, andpassed through strange, far-awaycountries. All honour to you, heroic host ofthe interminable path! Mockery andreproach pricked me to rise, but found noresponse in me. I gave myself up for lostin the depth of a glad humiliation--in the

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shadow of a dim delight.

The repose of the sun-embroidered greengloom slowly spread over my heart. Iforgot for what I had travelled, and Isurrendered my mind without struggle tothe maze of shadows and songs.

At last, when I woke from my slumber andopened my eyes, I saw thee standing byme, flooding my sleep with thy smile. HowI had feared that the path was long andwearisome, and the struggle to reach theewas hard!

You came down from your throne andstood at my cottage door.

I was singing all alone in a corner, and themelody caught your ear. You came downand stood at my cottage door.

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Masters are many in your hall, and songsare sung there at all hours. But the simplecarol of this novice struck at your love.One plaintive little strain mingled with thegreat music of the world, and with a flowerfor a prize you came down and stopped atmy cottage door.

I had gone a-begging from door to door inthe village path, when thy golden chariotappeared in the distance like a gorgeousdream and I wondered who was this Kingof all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought myevil days were at an end, and I stoodwaiting for alms to be given unasked andfor wealth scattered on all sides in thedust.

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The chariot stopped where I stood. Thyglance fell on me and thou camest downwith a smile. I felt that the luck of my lifehad come at last. Then of a sudden thoudidst hold out thy right hand and say 'Whathast thou to give to me?'

Ah, what a kingly jest was it to open thypalm to a beggar to beg! I was confusedand stood undecided, and then from mywallet I slowly took out the least little grainof corn and gave it to thee.

But how great my surprise when at theday's end I emptied my bag on the floor tofind a least little gram of gold among thepoor heap. I bitterly wept and wished thatI had had the heart to give thee my all.

The night darkened. Our day's works hadbeen done. We thought that the last guest

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had arrived for the night and the doors inthe village were all shut. Only some saidthe king was to come. We laughed andsaid 'No, it cannot be!'

It seemed there were knocks at the doorand we said it was nothing but the wind.We put out the lamps and lay down tosleep. Only some said, 'It is themessenger!' We laughed and said 'No, itmust be the wind!'

There came a sound in the dead of thenight. We sleepily thought it was thedistant thunder. The earth shook, the wallsrocked, and it troubled us in our sleep.Only some said it was the sound of wheels.We said in a drowsy murmur, 'No, it must

be the rumbling of clouds!'

The night was still dark when the drumsounded. The voice came 'Wake up!

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delay not!' We pressed our hands on ourhearts and shuddered with fear. Somesaid, 'Lo, there is the king's flag!' We stoodup on our feet and cried 'There is no timefor delay!'

The king has come--but where are lights,where are wreaths? Where is the throne toseat him? Oh, shame! Oh utter shame!Where is the hall, the decorations?Someone has said, 'Vain is this cry! Greethim with empty hands, lead him into thyrooms all bare!'

Open the doors, let the conch-shells besounded! in the depth of the night hascome the king of our dark, dreary house.The thunder roars in the sky. Thedarkness shudders with lightning. Bringout thy tattered piece of mat and spread itin the courtyard. With the storm has comeof a sudden our king of the fearful night.

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I thought I should ask of thee--but I darednot--the rose wreath thou hadst on thyneck. Thus I waited for the morning, whenthou didst depart, to find a few fragmentson the bed. And like a beggar I searchedin the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find? What token left ofthy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vaseof perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword,flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt ofthunder. The young light of morningcomes through the window and spreadsitself upon thy bed. The morning birdtwitters and asks, 'Woman, what hast thougot?' No, it is no flower, nor spices, norvase of perfumed water--it is thy dreadfulsword.

I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of

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thine. I can find no place to hide it. I amashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and ithurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yetshall I bear in my heart this honour of theburden of pain, this gift of thine.

From now there shall be no fear left for mein this world, and thou shalt be victoriousin all my strife. Thou hast left death for mycompanion and I shall crown him with mylife. Thy sword is with me to cut asundermy bonds, and there shall be no fear leftfor me in the world.

From now I leave off all petty decorations.Lord of my heart, no more shall there befor me waiting and weeping in corners, nomore coyness and sweetness ofdemeanour. Thou hast given me thy swordfor adornment. No more doll's decorationsfor me!

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Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starsand cunningly wrought in myriad-colouredjewels. But more beautiful to me thy swordwith its curve of lightning like theoutspread wings of the divine bird ofVishnu, perfectly poised in the angry redlight of the sunset.

It quivers like the one last response of lifein ecstasy of pain at the final stroke ofdeath; it shines like the pure flame ofbeing burning up earthly sense with onefierce flash.

Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starrygems; but thy sword, O lord of thunder, iswrought with uttermost beauty, terrible tobehold or think of.

I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my

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name to thine ear. When thou took'st thyleave I stood silent. I was alone by thewell where the shadow of the tree fellaslant, and the women had gone homewith their brown earthen pitchers full tothe brim. They called me and shouted,'Come with us, the morning is wearing onto noon.' But I languidly lingered awhilelost in the midst of vague musings.

I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thineeyes were sad when they fell on me; thyvoice was tired as thou spokest low--'Ah, Iam a thirsty traveller.' I started up from myday-dreams and poured water from my jaron thy joined palms. The leaves rustledoverhead; the cuckoo sang from theunseen dark, and perfume of _babla_flowers came from the bend of the road.

I stood speechless with shame when myname thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I

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done for thee to keep me inremembrance? But the memory that Icould give water to thee to allay thy thirstwill cling to my heart and enfold it insweetness. The morning hour is late, thebird sings in weary notes, _neem_ leavesrustle overhead and I sit and think andthink.

Languor is upon your heart and theslumber is still on your eyes.

Has not the word come to you that theflower is reigning in splendour amongthorns? Wake, oh awaken! let not the timepass in vain!

At the end of the stony path, in the countryof virgin solitude, my friend is sitting allalone. Deceive him not. Wake, ohawaken!

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What if the sky pants and trembles with theheat of the midday sun--what if the burningsand spreads its mantle of thirst--

Is there no joy in the deep of your heart?At every footfall of yours, will not the harpof the road break out in sweet music ofpain?

Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thusit is that thou hast come down to me. Othou lord of all heavens, where would bethy love if I were not?

Thou hast taken me as thy partner of allthis wealth. In my heart is the endless playof thy delight. In my life thy will is evertaking shape.

And for this, thou who art the King of kings

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hast decked thyself in beauty to captivatemy heart. And for this thy love loses itselfin the love of thy lover, and there art thouseen in the perfect union of two.

Light, my light, the world-filling light, theeye-kissing light, heart-sweetening light!

Ah, the light dances, my darling, at thecentre of my life; the light strikes, mydarling, the chords of my love; the skyopens, the wind runs wild, laughter passesover the earth.

The butterflies spread their sails on the seaof light. Lilies and jasmines surge up onthe crest of the waves of light.

The light is shattered into gold on everycloud, my darling, and it scatters gems inprofusion.

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Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,and gladness without measure. Theheaven's river has drowned its banks andthe flood of joy is abroad.

Let all the strains of joy mingle in my lastsong--the joy that makes the earth flowover in the riotous excess of the grass, thejoy that sets the twin brothers, life anddeath, dancing over the wide world, thejoy that sweeps in with the tempest,shaking and waking all life with laughter,the joy that sits still with its tears on theopen red lotus of pain, and the joy thatthrows everything it has upon the dust, andknows not a word.

Yes, I know, this is nothing but thy love, Obeloved of my heart-- this golden light that

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dances upon the leaves, these idle cloudssailing across the sky, this passing breezeleaving its coolness upon my forehead.

The morning light has flooded myeyes--this is thy message to my heart. Thyface is bent from above, thy eyes lookdown on my eyes, and my heart hastouched thy feet.

On the seashore of endless worldschildren meet. The infinite sky ismotionless overhead and the restlesswater is boisterous. On the seashore ofendless worlds the children meet withshouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand and theyplay with empty shells. With witheredleaves they weave their boats andsmilingly float them on the vast deep.

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Children have their play on the seashoreof worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know nothow to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive forpearls, merchants sail in their ships, whilechildren gather pebbles and scatter themagain. they seek not for hidden treasures,they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter and palegleams the smile of the sea beach.Death-dealing waves sing meaninglessballads to the children, even like a motherwhile rocking her baby's cradle. The seaplays with children, and pale gleams thesmile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worldschildren meet. Tempest roams in thepathless sky, ships get wrecked in thetrackless water, death is abroad and

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children play. On the seashore of endlessworlds is the great meeting of children.

The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--doesanybody know from where it comes? Yes,there is a rumour that it has its dwellingthere, in the fairy village among shadowsof 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 whenhe sleeps--does anybody know where itwas born? Yes, there is a rumour that ayoung pale beam of a crescent moontouched the edge of a vanishing autumncloud, and there the smile was first born inthe dream of a dew-washed morning--thesmile that flickers on baby's lips when hesleeps.

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The sweet, soft freshness that blooms onbaby's limbs--does anybody know whereit was hidden so long? Yes, when themother was a young girl it lay pervadingher heart in tender and silent mystery oflove--the sweet, soft freshness that hasbloomed on baby's limbs.

When I bring to you coloured toys, mychild, I understand why there is such aplay of colours on clouds, on water, andwhy flowers are painted in tints--when Igive coloured toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance I truly nowwhy there is music in leaves, and whywaves send their chorus of voices to theheart of the listening earth--when I sing tomake you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy

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hands I know why there is honey in the cupof the flowers and why fruits are secretlyfilled with sweet juice--when I bring sweetthings to your greedy hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile,my darling, I surely understand whatpleasure streams from the sky in morninglight, and what delight that is that is whichthe summer breeze brings to mybody--when I kiss you to make you smile.

Thou hast made me known to friendswhom I knew not. Thou hast given meseats in homes not my own. Thou hastbrought the distant near and made abrother of the stranger.

I am uneasy at heart when I have to leavemy accustomed shelter; I forget that thereabides the old in the new, and that there

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also thou abidest.

Through birth and death, in this world or inothers, wherever thou leadest me it isthou, the same, the one companion of myendless life who ever linkest my heart withbonds of joy to the unfamiliar.

When one knows thee, then alien there isnone, then no door is shut. Oh, grant memy prayer that I may never lose the bliss ofthe touch of the one in the play of many.

On the slope of the desolate river amongtall grasses I asked her, 'Maiden, where doyou go shading your lamp with yourmantle? My house is all dark andlonesome--lend me your light!' she raisedher dark eyes for a moment and looked atmy face through the dusk. 'I have come tothe river,' she said, 'to float my lamp on the

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stream when the daylight wanes in thewest.' I stood alone among tall grasses andwatched the timid flame of her lampuselessly drifting in the tide.

In the silence of gathering night I askedher, 'Maiden, your lights are all lit--thenwhere do you go with your lamp? Myhouse is all dark and lonesome--lend meyour light.' She raised her dark eyes onmy face and stood for a moment doubtful.'I have come,' she said at last, 'to dedicatemy lamp to the sky.' I stood and watchedher light uselessly burning in the void.

In the moonless gloom of midnight I askher, 'Maiden, what is your quest, holdingthe lamp near your heart? My house is alldark and lonesome--lend me your light.'She stopped for a minute and thought andgazed at my face in the dark. 'I havebrought my light,' she said, 'to join the

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carnival of lamps.' I stood and watchedher little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

What divine drink wouldst thou have, myGod, from this overflowing cup of my life?

My poet, is it thy delight to see thy creationthrough my eyes and to stand at the portalsof my ears silently to listen to thine owneternal harmony?

Thy world is weaving words in my mindand thy joy is adding music to them. Thougivest thyself to me in love and then feelestthine own entire sweetness in me.

She who ever had remained in the depth ofmy being, in the twilight of gleams and ofglimpses; she who never opened her veilsin the morning light, will be my last gift to

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thee, my God, folded in my final song.

Words have wooed yet failed to win her;persuasion has stretched to her its eagerarms in vain.

I have roamed from country to countrykeeping her in the core of my heart, andaround her have risen and fallen thegrowth and decay of my life.

Over my thoughts and actions, myslumbers and dreams, she reigned yetdwelled alone and apart.

Many a man knocked at my door andasked for her and turned away in despair.

There was none in the world who ever sawher face to face, and she remained in herloneliness waiting for thy recognition.

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Thou art the sky and thou art the nest aswell.

O thou beautiful, there in the nest is thylove that encloses the soul with coloursand sounds and odours.

There comes the morning with the goldenbasket in her right hand bearing thewreath of beauty, silently to crown theearth.

And there comes the evening over thelonely meadows deserted by herds,through trackless paths, carrying cooldraughts of peace in her golden pitcherfrom the western ocean of rest.

But there, where spreads the infinite skyfor the soul to take her flight in, reigns thestainless white radiance. There is no day

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nor night, nor form nor colour, and never,never a word.

Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth ofmine with arms outstretched and stands atmy door the livelong day to carry back tothy feet clouds made of my tears and sighsand songs.

With fond delight thou wrappest about thystarry breast that mantle of misty cloud,turning it into numberless shapes and foldsand colouring it with hues everchanging.

It is so light and so fleeting, tender andtearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it,O thou spotless and serene. And that iswhy it may cover thy awful white light withits pathetic shadows.

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The same stream of life that runs throughmy veins night and day runs through theworld and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy throughthe dust of the earth in numberless bladesof grass and breaks into tumultuous wavesof leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in theocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebband in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by thetouch of this world of life. And my pride isfrom the life-throb of ages dancing in myblood this moment.

Is it beyond thee to be glad with thegladness of this rhythm? to be tossed andlost and broken in the whirl of this fearful

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joy?

All things rush on, they stop not, they looknot behind, no power can hold them back,they rush on.

Keeping steps with that restless, rapidmusic, seasons come dancing and passaway--colours, tunes, and perfumes pourin endless cascades in the abounding joythat scatters and gives up and dies everymoment.

That I should make much of myself andturn it on all sides, thus casting colouredshadows on thy radiance--such is thy_maya_.

Thou settest a barrier in thine own beingand then callest thy severed self in myriadnotes. This thy self-separation has taken

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body in me.

The poignant song is echoed through allthe sky in many-coloured tears and smiles,alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sinkagain, dreams break and form. In me isthy own defeat of self.

This screen that thou hast raised is paintedwith innumerable figures with the brush ofthe night and the day. Behind it thy seat iswoven in wondrous mysteries of curves,casting away all barren lines ofstraightness.

The great pageant of thee and me hasoverspread the sky. With the tune of theeand me all the air is vibrant, and all agespass with the hiding and seeking of theeand me.

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He it is, the innermost one, who awakensmy being with his deep hidden touches.

He it is who puts his enchantment uponthese eyes and joyfully plays on the chordsof my heart in varied cadence of pleasureand pain.

He it is who weaves the web of this _maya_in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blueand green, and lets peep out through thefolds his feet, at whose touch I forgetmyself.

Days come and ages pass, and it is ever hewho moves my heart in many a name, inmany a guise, in many a rapture of joy andof sorrow.

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. Ifeel the embrace of freedom in a thousand

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bonds of delight.

Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draughtof thy wine of various colours andfragrance, filling this earthen vessel to thebrim.

My world will light its hundred differentlamps with thy flame and place thembefore the altar of thy temple.

No, I will never shut the doors of mysenses. The delights of sight and hearingand touch will bear thy delight.

Yes, all my illusions will burn intoillumination of joy, and all my desiresripen into fruits of love.

The day is no more, the shadow is upon theearth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill

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my pitcher.

The evening air is eager with the sadmusic of the water. Ah, it calls me out intothe dusk. In the lonely lane there is nopasser-by, the wind is up, the ripples arerampant in the river.

I know not if I shall come back home. Iknow not whom I shall chance to meet.There at the fording in the little boat theunknown man plays upon his lute.

Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needsand yet run back to thee undiminished.

The river has its everyday work to do andhastens through fields and hamlets; yet itsincessant stream winds towards thewashing of thy feet.

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The flower sweetens the air with itsperfume; yet its last service is to offer itselfto thee.

Thy worship does not impoverish theworld.

From the words of the poet men take whatmeanings please them; yet their lastmeaning points to thee.

Day after day, O lord of my life, shall Istand before thee face to face. With foldedhands, O lord of all worlds, shall I standbefore thee face to face.

Under thy great sky in solitude andsilence, with humble heart shall I standbefore thee face to face.

In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous

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with toil and with struggle, amonghurrying crowds shall I stand before theeface to face.

And when my work shall be done in thisworld, O King of kings, alone andspeechless shall I stand before thee face toface.

I know thee as my God and stand apart--Ido not know thee as my own and comecloser. I know thee as my father and bowbefore thy feet--I do not grasp thy hand asmy friend's.

I stand not where thou comest down andownest thyself as mine, there to clasp theeto my heart and take thee as my comrade.

Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers,but I heed them not, I divide not my

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earnings with them, thus sharing my allwith thee.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not by theside of men, and thus stand by thee. Ishrink to give up my life, and thus do notplunge into the great waters of life.

When the creation was new and all thestars shone in their first splendour, thegods held their assembly in the sky andsang 'Oh, the picture of perfection! the joyunalloyed!'

But one cried of a sudden--'It seems thatsomewhere there is a break in the chain oflight and one of the stars has been lost.'

The golden string of their harp snapped,their song stopped, and they cried indismay--'Yes, that lost star was the best,

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she was the glory of all heavens!'

From that day the search is unceasing forher, and the cry goes on from one to theother that in her the world has lost its onejoy!

Only in the deepest silence of night thestars smile and whisper amongthemselves--'Vain is this seeking!unbroken perfection is over all!'

If it is not my portion to meet thee in thislife then let me ever feel that I have missedthy sight--let me not forget for a moment,let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in mydreams and in my wakeful hours.

As my days pass in the crowded market ofthis world and my hands grow full with thedaily profits, let me ever feel that I have

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gained nothing--let me not forget for amoment, let me carry the pangs of thissorrow in my dreams and in my wakefulhours.

When I sit by the roadside, tired andpanting, when I spread my bed low in thedust, let me ever feel that the long journeyis still before me--let me not forget amoment, let me carry the pangs of thissorrow in my dreams and in my wakefulhours.

When my rooms have been decked outand the flutes sound and the laughter thereis loud, let me ever feel that I have notinvited thee to my house--let me not forgetfor a moment, let me carry the pangs ofthis sorrow in my dreams and in mywakeful hours.

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I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumnuselessly roaming in the sky, O my sunever-glorious! Thy touch has not yetmelted my vapour, making me one withthy light, and thus I count months andyears separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play,then take this fleeting emptiness of mine,paint it with colours, gild it with gold, floatit on the wanton wind and spread it invaried wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to endthis play at night, I shall melt and vanishaway in the dark, or it may be in a smile ofthe white morning, in a coolness of puritytransparent.

On many an idle day have I grieved overlost time. But it is never lost, my lord.

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Thou hast taken every moment of my life inthine own hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou artnourishing seeds into sprouts, buds intoblossoms, and ripening flowers intofruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bedand imagined all work had ceased. In themorning I woke up and found my gardenfull with wonders of flowers.

Time is endless in thy hands, my lord.There is none to count thy minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom andfade like flowers. Thou knowest how towait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting

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a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose, and having notime we must scramble for a chances. Weare too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I giveit to every querulous man who claims it,and thine altar is empty of all offerings tothe last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lestthy gate to be shut; but I find that yet thereis time.

Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls forthy neck with my tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought their anklets oflight to deck thy feet, but mine will hangupon thy breast.

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Wealth and fame come from thee and it isfor thee to give or to withhold them. Butthis my sorrow is absolutely mine own, andwhen I bring it to thee as my offering thourewardest me with thy grace.

It is the pang of separation that spreadsthroughout the world and gives birth toshapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes insilence all nights from star to star andbecomes lyric among rustling leaves inrainy darkness of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepensinto loves and desires, into sufferings andjoy in human homes; and this it is that evermelts and flows in songs through my poet'sheart.

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When the warriors came out first from theirmaster's hall, where had they hid theirpower? Where were their armour andtheir arms?

They looked poor and helpless, and thearrows were showered upon them on theday they came out from their master's hall.

When the warriors marched back again totheir master's hall where did they hidetheir power?

They had dropped the sword and droppedthe bow and the arrow; peace was on theirforeheads, and they had left the fruits oftheir life behind them on the day theymarched back again to their master's hall.

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Death, thy servant, is at my door. He hascrossed the unknown sea and brought thycall to my home.

The night is dark and my heart isfearful--yet I will take up the lamp, openmy gates and bow to him my welcome. Itis thy messenger who stands at my door.

I will worship him placing at his feet thetreasure 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 forlornself will remain as my last offering to thee.

In desperate hope I go and search for herin all the corners of my room; I find hernot.

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My house is small and what once has gonefrom it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, andseeking her I have to come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thineevening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thyface.

I have come to the brink of eternity fromwhich nothing can vanish--no hope, nohappiness, no vision of a face seen throughtears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let mefor once feel that lost sweet touch in theallness of the universe.

Deity of the ruined temple! The broken

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strings of _Vina_ sing no more your praise.The bells in the evening proclaim not your

time of worship. The air is still and silentabout you.

In your desolate dwelling comes thevagrant spring breeze. It brings thetidings of flowers--the flowers that for yourworship are offered no more.

Your worshipper of old wanders everlonging for favour still refused. In theeventide, when fires and shadows minglewith the gloom of dust, he wearily comesback to the ruined temple with hunger inhis heart.

Many a festival day comes to you insilence, deity of the ruined temple. Manya night of worship goes away with lampunlit.

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Many new images are built by masters ofcunning art and carried to the holy streamof oblivion when their time is come.

Only the deity of the ruined templeremains unworshipped in deathlessneglect.

No more noisy, loud words from me--suchis my master's will. Henceforth I deal inwhispers. The speech of my heart will becarried on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the King's market. All thebuyers and sellers are there. But I havemy untimely leave in the middle of theday, in the thick of work.

Let then the flowers come out in mygarden, though it is not their time; and letthe midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

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Full many an hour have I spent in the strifeof the good and the evil, but now it is thepleasure of my playmate of the empty daysto draw my heart on to him; and I know notwhy is this sudden call to what uselessinconsequence!

On the day when death will knock at thydoor what wilt thou offer to him?

Oh, I will set before my guest the fullvessel of my life--I will never let him gowith empty hands.

All the sweet vintage of all my autumndays and summer nights, all the earningsand gleanings of my busy life will I placebefore him at the close of my days whendeath will knock at my door.

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O thou the last fulfilment of life, Death, mydeath, come and whisper to me!

Day after day I have kept watch for thee;for thee have I borne the joys and pangs oflife.

All that I am, that I have, that I hope and allmy love have ever flowed towards thee indepth of secrecy. One final glance fromthine eyes and my life will be ever thineown.

The flowers have been woven and thegarland is ready for the bridegroom. Afterthe wedding the bride shall leave herhome and meet her lord alone in thesolitude of night.

I know that the day will come when my

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sight of this earth shall be lost, and life willtake its leave in silence, drawing the lastcurtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night, and morningrise as before, and hours heave like seawaves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments,the barrier of the moments breaks and Isee by the light of death thy world with itscareless treasures. Rare is its lowliest seat,rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain and thingsthat I got--let them pass. Let me but trulypossess the things that I ever spurned andoverlooked.

I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, mybrothers! I bow to you all and take my

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departure.

Here I give back the keys of my door--andI give up all claims to my house. I only askfor last kind words from you.

We were neighbours for long, but Ireceived more than I could give. Now theday has dawned and the lamp that lit mydark corner is out. A summons has comeand I am ready for my journey.

At this time of my parting, wish me goodluck, my friends! The sky is flushed withthe dawn and my path lies beautiful.

Ask not what I have with me to take there.I start on my journey with empty hands andexpectant heart.

I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is

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not the red-brown dress of the traveller,and though there are dangers on the way Ihave no fear in mind.

The evening star will come out when myvoyage is done and the plaintive notes ofthe twilight melodies be struck up from theKing's gateway.

I was not aware of the moment when I firstcrossed the threshold of this life.

What was the power that made me openout into this vast mystery like a bud in theforest at midnight!

When in the morning I looked upon thelight I felt in a moment that I was nostranger in this world, that the inscrutablewithout name and form had taken me in itsarms in the form of my own mother.

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Even so, in death the same unknown willappear as ever known to me. Andbecause I love this life, I know I shall lovedeath as well.

The child cries out when from the rightbreast the mother takes it away, in the verynext moment to find in the left one itsconsolation.

When I go from hence let this be myparting word, that what I have seen isunsurpassable.

I have tasted of the hidden honey of thislotus that expands on the ocean of light,and thus am I blessed--let this be myparting word.

In this playhouse of infinite forms I have

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had my play and here have I caught sightof him that is formless.

My whole body and my limbs have thrilledwith his touch who is beyond touch; and ifthe end comes here, let it come--let this bemy parting word.

When my play was with thee I neverquestioned who thou wert. I knew norshyness nor fear, my life was boisterous.

In the early morning thou wouldst call mefrom my sleep like my own comrade andlead me running from glade to glade.

On those days I never cared to know themeaning of songs thou sangest to me.Only my voice took up the tunes, and myheart danced in their cadence.

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Now, when the playtime is over, what isthis sudden sight that is come upon me?The world with eyes bent upon thy feetstands in awe with all its silent stars.

I will deck thee with trophies, garlands ofmy defeat. It is never in my power toescape unconquered.

I surely know my pride will go to the wall,my life will burst its bonds in exceedingpain, and my empty heart will sob out inmusic like a hollow reed, and the stone willmelt in tears.

I surely know the hundred petals of a lotuswill not remain closed for ever and thesecret recess of its honey will be bared.

From the blue sky an eye shall gaze uponme and summon me in silence. Nothing

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will be left for me, nothing whatever, andutter death shall I receive at thy feet.

When I give up the helm I know that thetime has come for thee to take it. Whatthere is to do will be instantly done. Vainis this struggle.

Then take away your hands and silentlyput up with your defeat, my heart, andthink it your good fortune to sit perfectlystill where you are placed.

These my lamps are blown out at everylittle puff of wind, and trying to light them Iforget all else again and again.

But I shall be wise this time and wait in thedark, spreading my mat on the floor; andwhenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, comesilently and take thy seat here.

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I dive down into the depth of the ocean offorms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl ofthe formless.

No more sailing from harbour to harbourwith this my weather- beaten boat. Thedays are long passed when my sport wasto be tossed on waves.

And now I am eager to die into thedeathless.

Into the audience hall by the fathomlessabyss where swells up the music oftoneless strings I shall take this harp of mylife.

I shall tune it to the notes of forever, andwhen it has sobbed out its last utterance,lay down my silent harp at the feet of the

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silent.

Ever in my life have I sought thee with mysongs. It was they who led me from doorto door, and with them have I felt aboutme, searching and touching my world.

It was my songs that taught me all thelessons I ever learnt; they showed mesecret paths, they brought before my sightmany a star on the horizon of my heart.

They guided me all the day long to themysteries of the country of pleasure andpain, and, at last, to what palace gate havethe brought me in the evening at the end ofmy journey?

I boasted among men that I had knownyou. They see your pictures in all works of

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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 andthey go away in scorn. And you sit theresmiling.

I put my tales of you into lasting songs.The secret gushes out from my heart. Theycome and ask me, 'Tell me all yourmeanings.' I know not how to answerthem. I say, 'Ah, who knows what theymean!' They smile and go away in utterscorn. And you sit there smiling.

In one salutation to thee, my God, let allmy senses spread out and touch this worldat thy feet.

Like a rain-cloud of July hung low with itsburden of unshed showers let all my mindbend down at thy door in one salutation to

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thee.

Let all my songs gather together theirdiverse strains into a single current andflow to a sea of silence in one salutation tothee.

Like a flock of homesick cranes flyingnight and day back to their mountain nestslet all my life take its voyage to its eternalhome in one salutation to thee.

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End of the Project Gutenberg EBook ofGitanjali, by Rabindranath Tagore

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