The Poetry of Rabindranath Tagore
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
...When you have leisure, wander idly through my garden in spring and let an unknown, hidden flower's scent startle you into sudden wondering- let that displaced moment be my gift. -Rabindranath Tagore
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Stray Birds
NOW COMPLETE: I-CCCXXV
from Gitanjali
I
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
II
When thou commandest me to sing, it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony- and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.
I touch by the edge of the far-spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.
Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord.
III
I know not how thou singest, my master! I ever listen in silent amazement.
The light of thy music illumines the world. The life-breath of thy music runs from sky to sky. The holy stream of thy music breaks through all stony obstacles and rushes on.
My heart longs to join in thy song, but vainly struggles for a voice. I would speak, but speech breaks not into song, and I cry out baffled. Ah, thou hast made my heart captive in the endless meshes of thy music, my master!
from The Gardener
LXVI
A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks, tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shutup doors of his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate.
Before him the endless ocean roared.
The garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures, mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning.
Maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for the search had become his life,-
Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the unattainable-
Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can never be reached-
Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks still roamed in search of the touchstone.
One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you come at this golden chain about your waist?"
The madman started- the chain that once was iron was verily gold; it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed.
He struck his forehead wildly- where, O where had he without knowing it achieved success?
It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the chain, and throw them away without looking to see if a change had come; thus the madman found and lost the touchstone.
The sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold.
The madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart in the dust, like a tree uprooted.
from Fruit Gathering
XVIII
No: it is not yours to open buds into blossoms.
Shake the bud, strike it; it is beyond your power to make it blossom.
Your touch soils it, you tear its petals to pieces and strew them in the dust.
But no colours appear, and no perfume.
Ah! it is not for you to open the bud into a blossom.
He who can open the bud does it simply.
He gives it a glance, and the life-sap stirs though its veins.
At his breath the flower spreads its wings and flutters in the wind.
Colours flush out like heart-longings, the perfume betrays a sweet secret.
He who can open the bud does it so simply.
XXXV
The trumpet lies in the dust.
The wind is weary, the light is dead.
Ah, the evil day!
Come, fighters, carrying your flags, and singers, with your war-songs!
Come, pilgrims of the march, hurrying on your journey!
The trumpet lies in the dust waiting for us.
I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings, seeking for a place of rest after the day's dusty toil: hoping my hurts would be healed and the stains in my garment washed white, when I found thy trumpet lying in the dust.
Was it not the hour for me to light my evening lamp?
Had not the night sung its lullaby to the stars?
O thou blood-red rose, my poppies of sleep have paled and faded!
I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts all paid when suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust.
Strike my drowsy heart with thy spell of youth!
Let my joy in life blaze up in fire.
Let the shafts of awakening fly through the heart of night, and a thrill of dread shake blindness and palsy.
I have come to raise thy trumpet from the dust.
Sleep is no more for me- my walk shall be through showers of arrows.
Some shall run out of their houses and come to my side- some shall weep.
Some in their beds shall toss and groan in dire dreams.
For to-night thy trumpet shall be sounded.
From thee I have asked peace only to find shame.
Now I stand before thee- help me to put on my armour!
Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life.
Let my heart beat in pain, the drum of thy victory.
My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.
from The Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore, The MacMillan Company, 1967.
Back to Home Page
Copyright © 2000-2003 by Susyne
This page hosted by 
Get your own Free Home Page