The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore
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weep when I cannot see you.
Yet I know the endless thirst in your heart for sight of me, the thirst that cries at my door in the repeated knockings of sunrise.
LXXXI
You, in your timeless watch, listen to my approaching steps while your gladness gathers in the morning twilight and breaks in the burst of light.
The nearer I draw to you the deeper grows the fervour in the dance of the sea.
Your world is a branching spray of light filling your hands, but your heaven is in my secret heart; it slowly opens its buds in shy love.
LXXXII
I will utter your name, sitting alone among the shadows of my silent thoughts.
I will utter it without words, I will utter it without purpose.
For I am like a child that calls its mother an hundred times, glad that it can say "Mother."
LXXXIII
I
I feel that all the stars shine in me. The world breaks into my life like a flood.
The flowers blossom in my body. All the youthfulness of land and water smokes like an incense in my heart; and the breath of all things plays on my thoughts as on a flute.
II
When the world sleeps I come to your door.
The stars are silent, and I am afraid to sing.
I wait and watch, till your shadow passes by the balcony of night and I return with a full heart.
Then in the morning I sing by the roadside;
The flowers in the hedge give me answer and the morning air listens,
The travellers suddenly stop and look in my face, thinking I have called them by their names.
III
Keep me at your door ever attending to your wishes, and let me go about in your Kingdom accepting your call.
Let me not sink and disappear in the depth of languor.
Let not my life be worn out to tatters by penury of waste.
Let not those doubts encompass me,—the dust of distractions.
Let me not pursue many paths to gather many things.
Let me not bend my heart to the yoke of the many.
Let me hold my head high in the courage and pride of being your servant.
LXXXIV: THE OARSMEN
Do you hear the tumult of death afar,
The call midst the fire-floods and poisonous clouds
—The Captain's call to the steersman to turn the ship to an
unnamed shore,
For that time is over—the stagnant time in the port—
Where the same old merchandise is bought and sold in an endless
round,
Where dead things drift in the exhaustion and emptiness of truth.
They wake up in sudden fear and ask,
"Comrades, what hour has struck?
When shall the dawn begin?"
The clouds have blotted away the stars—
Who is there then can see the beckoning finger of the day?
They run out with oars in hand, the beds are emptied, the mother
prays, the wife watches by the door;
There is a wail of parting that rises to the sky,
And there is the Captain's voice in the dark:
"Come, sailors, for the time in the harbour is over!"
All the black evils in the world have overflowed their banks,
Yet, oarsmen, take your places with the blessing of sorrow in
your souls!
Whom do you blame, brothers? Bow your heads down!
The sin has been yours and ours.
The heat growing in the heart of God for ages—
The cowardice of the weak, the arrogance of the strong, the greed
of fat prosperity, the rancour of the wronged, pride of race, and
insult to man—
Has burst God's peace, raging in storm.
Like a ripe pod, let the tempest break its heart into pieces,
scattering thunders.
Stop your bluster of dispraise and of self-praise,
And with the calm of silent prayer on your foreheads sail to that
unnamed shore.
We have known sins and evils every day and death we have known;
They pass over our world like clouds mocking us with their
transient lightning laughter.
Suddenly they have stopped, become a prodigy,
And men must stand before them saying:
"We do not fear you, O Monster! for we have lived every day by
conquering you,
"And we die with the faith that Peace is true, and Good is true,
and true is the eternal One!"
If the Deathless dwell not in the heart of death,
If glad wisdom bloom not bursting the sheath of sorrow,
If sin do not die of its own revealment,
If pride break not under its load of decorations,
Then whence comes the hope that drives these men from their homes
like stars rushing to their death in the morning light?
Shall the value of the martyrs' blood and mothers' tears be
utterly lost in the dust of the earth, not buying Heaven with
their price?
And when Man bursts his mortal bounds, is not the Boundless
revealed that moment?
LXXXV: THE SONG OF THE DEFEATED
My Master has bid me while I stand at the roadside, to sing the song of Defeat, for that is the bride whom He woos in secret.
She has put on the dark veil, hiding her face from the crowd, but the jewel glows on her breast in the dark.
She is forsaken of the day, and God's night is waiting for her with its lamps lighted and flowers wet with dew.
She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind.