Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore
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For in the springtime flowers come in crowds, and the busy wings of bees jostle each other.
Our little heaven, where dwell only we two immortals, is too absurdly narrow.
45
To the guests that must go bid God's speed and brush away all traces of their steps.
Take to your bosom with a smile what is easy and simple and near.
To-day is the festival of phantoms that know not when they die.
Let your laughter be but a meaningless mirth like twinkles of light on the ripples.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
Strike in chords from your harp fitful momentary rhythms.
46
You left me and went on your way.
I thought I should mourn for you and set your solitary image in my heart wrought in a golden song.
But ah, my evil fortune, time is short.
Youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; the frail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me that life is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf.
Should I neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned her back on me?
That would be rude and foolish, for time is short.
Then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my golden autumn; come, careless April, scattering your kisses abroad.
You come, and you, and you also!
My loves, you know we are mortals.
Is it wise to break one's heart for the one who takes her heart away? For time is short.
It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes that you are all my world.
It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to be consoled.
But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to my eyes.
I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song.
For time is short.
47
If you would have it so, I will end my singing.
If it sets your heart aflutter, I will take away my eyes from your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk, I will step aside and take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving, I will shun your lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild, I will not row my boat by your bank.
48
Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! No more of this wine of kisses.
This mist of heavy incense stifles my heart.
Open the doors, make room for the morning light.
I am lost in you, wrapped in the folds of your caresses.
Free me from your spells, and give me back the manhood to offer you my freed heart.
49
I hold her hands and press her to my breast.
I try to fill my arms with her loveliness, to plunder her sweet smile with kisses, to drink her dark glances with my eyes.
Ah, but, where is it? Who can strain the blue from the sky?
I try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me, leaving only the body in my hands.
Baffled and weary I come back.
How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may touch?
50
Love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you—for the meeting that is like all-devouring death.
Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have; break open my sleep and plunder my dreams.
Rob me of my world.
In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except in thee, my God?
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.
52
Why did the lamp go out?
I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why the lamp went out.
Why did the flower fade?
I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded.
Why did the stream dry up?
I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up.
Why did the harp-string break?
I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why the harp-string is broken.
53
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
I have not come as a beggar.
Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyard outside the garden hedge.
Why do you put me to shame with a look?
Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did I pluck.
I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where every strange traveller may stand.
Not a rose did I pluck.
Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.
The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.
The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat.
My feet were tired.
I know