 Introduction to Geetanjali. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore, translated by the original author. Introduction by William Butler Yates. A few days ago, I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of medicine, I know no German, yet if a translation of a German poet had moved me, I would go to the British Museum and find books in English that would tell me something of his life and of the history of his thought. But though these prose translations from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for years, I shall not know anything of his life and of the movements of thoughts that have made them possible. Some Indian traveller will not tell me. It seemed to him natural that I should be moved, for he said, I read Rabindranath every day. To read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world. I said, an Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard II, had he been shown translations from Petrarch or from Dante, would have found no books to answer his questions, but would have questioned some Florentine baker or Lombard merchant as I question you. For all I know, so abundant and simple as this poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country and I shall never know of it except by hearsay. He answered, we have other poets, but none that are his equal. We call this the epoch of Rabindranath. No poet seems to me as famous in Europe as he is among us. He is as great in music as in poetry and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma, wherever Bengali is spoken. He was already famous at nineteen when he wrote his first novel and players when he was but little older are still played in Calcutta. I so much admire the completeness of his life. When he was very young he wrote much of natural objects. He would sit all day in his garden. From his twenty-fifth year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language. And then he said with deep emotion, words can never express what I owed at seventeen to his love poetry. After that his art grew deeper, it became religious and philosophical. All the inspiration of mankind are in his hymns. He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live but has spoken out of life itself and that is why we give him our love. I may have changed his well chosen words in my memory but not his thought. A little while ago he was to read Divine service in one of our churches. We of the Brahma Samaj use your word church in English. It was the largest in Calcutta but not only was it crowded but the streets were all but impassable because of the people. Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man sounded strange in our world where we hide great and little things under the same veil of obvious comedy and half serious depreciation. When we were making the cathedrals had we alike reverence for our great men? Every morning at three, I know for I have seen it, one said to me, he sits immovable in contemplation and for two hours does not awake from his reverie upon the nature of God. His father the Maharishi would sometimes sit there all through the next day. Once upon a river he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of the landscape and the rovers waited for eight hours before they could continue their journey. He then told me of Mr. Tagore's family and how for generations great men have come out of its gradles. Today, he said, there are Goganendra Nath and Abhinendra Nath Tagore who are artists and Dwijendra Nath, Abhinendra Nath's brother who is a great philosopher. The squirrels come from the bows and climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his hands. I notice in these men's thought a sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held that doctrine of nature that we must not believe in the moral or intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself upon physical things. I said, in the East you know how to keep a family illustrious. The other day the curator of a museum pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man who was arranging their Chinese prints and said, that is the hereditary convozio of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family to hold the post. He answered, when Rabindranath was a boy he had all around him in his home literature and music. I thought of the abundance of the simplicity of the poems and said, in your country is there much propagandist writing, much criticism. We have to do so much, especially in my own country, that our minds gradually cease to be creative and yet we cannot help it. If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have taste, we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and readers. Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with bad taste, whether in our own minds or in the minds of others. I understand, he replied. We too have our propagandist writing. In the villages they recite long mythological poems adapted from the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages and they often insert passages telling the people that they must do their duties. I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me for days, reading it in railway trains or on the top of omnibuses and in restaurants and I have often had to close it, lest some stranger would see how much it moved me. These lyrics, which are in the original, my Indians tell me, full of subtlety, of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical invention, display in their thought a world I have dreamed of all my life long. The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear as much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes. A tradition where poetry and religion are the same thing has passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and un-learned metaphor and emotion and carried back again to the multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble. If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind, which, as one divides, runs through all, is not, as with us, broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other, something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have come in a few generations to the beggar on the roads. When there was but one mind in England, Chaucer wrote us Trollus and Cressida and thought he had written to be read or to be read out, for our time was coming on a pace. He was sung by minstrels for a while. Ravindranath Tagore, like Chaucer's four runners, writes music for his words and one understands that every moment that he is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full of surprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed strange, unnatural or in need of defence. These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon ladies' tables who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life or be carried by students of the universe due to be laid aside when the work of life begins. But as the generations pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon the rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find in murmuring them this love of God, a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth. At every moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will understand and it has filled itself with the circumstance of their lives. The traveller in the red-brown clothes that he wears the dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the servant or the bride awaiting the master's homecoming in the empty house, are images of the heart turning to God. Flowers and rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation, and a man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute like one of those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture is God himself. A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably strange to us seems to have been taken up into this imagination. Yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because we have met our own image as though we had walked into our city's willow wood or heard perhaps for the first time in literature our voice as in a dream. Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints, however familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their thought has ceased to hold our attention. We know that we must at last forsake the world and we are accustomed in moments of murriness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking. But how can we who have read so much poetry seen so much paintings, listened to so much music where the cry of the flesh and the cry of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely? What have we in common with Saint Bernard covering his eyes that they may not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland or with the violent rhetoric of the book of Revelations? We would, if we might, find as in this book words full of courtesy. I have got my leave, bid me farewell, my brothers. I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come and I am ready for my journey. And it is our own mood when it is furthest from a Kempis or John of the Cross that cries and because I love this life I know I shall love death as well. Yet it is not only in our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all. We had not known that we loved God hardly it may be that we believed in Him. Yet looking backward upon our life we discover in our exploration of the pathways of woods in our delight in the lonely places of hills in that mysterious claim that we have made unavailingly on the woman that we have loved the emotion that created this insidious sweetness. Entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd unknown to me, my king thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment. This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of this courage. Being but a lifting up as it were into a greater intensity of the mood of the painter painting the dust and the sunlight and we go for a like voice to St. Francis and to William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history. We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make writing a pleasure being confident in some general design just as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics. All dull things in the doing while Mr. Tagore, like the Indian civilization itself has been content to discover the soul and surrender himself to its spontaneity. He often seems to contrast life with that of those who have loved more after our fashion and have more seeming weight in the world and always humbly as though he were only sure his way is best for him. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid drawing my skirt over my face and when they ask me what it is I want I drop my eyes and answer them not. At another time remembering how his life had once a different shape he will say, many an hour I have spent in the strife of the good and the evil but now it is the pleasure of my playmate for thirty days to draw my heart on to him and I know not why this sudden call to what useless consequence. An innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to children and the changes of the seasons great evens as before our thoughts had a reason between them and us. At times I wonder if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from religion and at other times remembering the birds alighting on his brother's hands I find pleasure of thinking it hereditary a mystery that was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan or a Pelinor. Indeed when he is speaking of children so much a part of himself this quality seems one is not certain that he is not also speaking of the saints. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shelves with withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep children have their play on the seashore of worlds they know not how to swim they know not how to cast nets pearlfishers dive for birds merchants sail in their ships while children gather pebbles and scatter them again they seek not for hidden treasures they know not how to cast nets W.B. Yates September 1912 End of introduction to Geetanjali Verses 1-10 of Geetanjali This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore translated by the original author Verses 1-10 1. 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 has breathed through it melodies eternally new At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits enjoy 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 poorest and still there is room to fill 2. 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 takeest pleasure in my singing I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence I touch by the edge of my singing 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 3. 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 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 4. Life of my life I shall ever try to keep my body pure knowing that thy living touch is upon all my limbs I shall ever try to keep all untruths out of my thoughts knowing that thou art that truth which is kindled the light of reason in my mind I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart and keep my love in flower knowing that thou hast thy seat in the inmost shrine of my heart and it shall be my endeavor to reveal thee in my actions knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act 5. I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side the works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil 6. Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs and the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove now it is time to sit quiet face to face with thee and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure 6. I fear less to droop and drop into the dust I may not find a place in thy garland but honour it with a touch of pain from thy hand and pluck it I fear less the day end before I am aware and the time of offering go by though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint use this flower in thy service and pluck it while there is time 7. My song has put off her adornments she has no pride of dress and decoration ornaments would mar our union they would come between thee and me their jingling would drown thy whispers my poet's vanity dies and shame before thy sight oh master poet I have sat down at thy feet only let me make my life simple and straight like a flute of weed for thee to fill with music 8. The child who is decked with princess robes and who has jouled chains around his neck loses all pleasure in his play his dress hampers him at every step I fear that it may be frayed or stained with dust he keeps himself from the world and is afraid even to move Mother it is no gain thy bondage of finery if it keep one shut off from the healthful dust of the earth if it rob one of the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life 9. Oh fool try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders oh beggar to come beg at thy own door leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all and never look behind in regret thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath it is unholy take not thy gifts through its unclean hands except only what is offered by sacred love 10. Here is thy footstool and there rest thy feet where live the poorest and lowliest and lost when I try to bow to thee my obeisance cannot reach down to the depth where thy feet rest among the poorest and lowliest and lost pride can never approach to where thou walkest in the clothes of the humble among the poorest and lowliest and lost my heart can never find its way to where thou keepest company with the companionless among the poorest and lowliest and the lost end of verses 1 to 10 3. This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Hilara Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore translated by the original author Chapter 3 11. Leave this chanting and singing and telling of weeds Whom does thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee he is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the path maker is breaking stones he is with them in sun and in shower and his garment is covered with dust Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil Deliverance Where is this deliverance to be found Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation he is bound with us all forever come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy bro 12. The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet it is the most distant course that came nearest to thyself and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune The traveller has to knock at every alien door his own and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end my eyes strayed far and wide before I shot them and said here art thou the question and the cry oh where melt into tears of a thousand streams and eluge the world with the flood of the assurance I am 13. The time that I came to sing remains unsung to this day I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument the time has not come true the words have not been rightly set only there is the agony of wishing in my heart the blossom has not opened only the wind is sighing by I have not seen his face nor have I listened to his voice only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house the live long day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house I live in the hope of meeting with him but this meeting is not yet 14. my desires are many and my cry is pitiful but ever did thou save me by hard refusals and wrong mercy has been wrought into my life through and through day by day thou art making me worthy of the simple great gifts that thou gavest to me unasked the sky and the light this body and the life and the mind saving me from perils of over much desire there are times when I languidly linger and times when I awaken out of my call but cruelly thou hidest thyself from before me day by day thou art make me worthy of thy full acceptance by refusing me ever an anand saving me from perils of weak uncertain desire 15. I am here to sing these songs in this hall of thine I have a corner seat in thy world I have no work to do my useless life can only break out in tunes without a purpose when the hour strikes for thy silent worship at the dark temple of midnight command me my master to stand before thee to sing when in the morning air the golden harp is tuned honour me commanding my presence 16. I have had my invitation to this world's festival and thus my life has been blessed my eyes have seen and my ears have heard it was my part at this feast to play upon my instrument and I have done all I could now I ask has the time come at last when I may go in and see thy face and offer thee my silent salutation 17. I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands that is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions they come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast but I evade them ever for I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands people blame me and call me heedless I doubt not they are right in their blame the market day is over and work is all done for the busy those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands 18. Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens ah love why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone in the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope if thou showest me not thy face if thou leaveest me wholly aside I know not how I am to pass these long rainy hours I keep gazing on the far away gloom of the sky and my heart wanders wailing with the rest is wind 19. if thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it I will keep still with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience the morning will surely come the darkness will vanish and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my bird's nest and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest grows 20. On the day when the lotus bloomed alas my mind was straying and I knew it not my basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded only now and again a sadness fell upon me I started up from my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind that vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to me that it was the end of the summer seeking for its completion I knew not then that it was so near that it was mine and that this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart End of Chapter 3 Recording by Hilara Chapter 4 of Geetanjali This is the LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer LibriVox.org Recording by Hilara Geetanjali by Rabindranath Tagore Translated by the original author Chapter 4 21. I must launch out my boat The languid hours pass by on the shore alas for me The spring has done its flowering and they can leave and now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger The waves have become clamorous and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall What emptiness do you gaze upon? Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far away song floating upon the other shore? 22. In the deep shadows of the rainy July with secret steps thou walkest silent as night all watchers 23. Today the morning has closed its eyes heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind and a thick veil has been drawn over 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 this deserted street O my only friend my best beloved the gates are open in my house do not pass by like a dream 23. Are thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair I have no sleep tonight Ever and again I open my door and look out of the darkness, my friend I can see nothing before me I wonder where lies thy path By what dim shore of the ink-black river by the far edge of the frowning forest through what mazy depth of gloom are thou dreading thy course to come to me, my friend 24. If thy day is done if birds sing no more if the wind has flagged tired then draw the veil of darkness thick upon me even as thou has trapped the earth with the covalent of sleep and tenderly close the petals of the drooping lotus from the dusk from the traveller whose sack of provisions is empty before the voyage is ended whose garment is torn and dust laden whose strength is exhausted remove shame and poverty and renew his life like a flower under the cover of thy kindly night 25. In the night of weariness let me give myself up to sleep without struggle when I trust upon thee let me not force my flagging spirit into a poor preparation for thy worship it is thou who draws the veil of night upon the tired eyes of the day to renew its sight in a fresher gladness of awakening 26. He came and sat by my side but I awoke not what a cursed sleep it was oh miserable me he came when the night was still he had his harp in his hands and my dreams become resonant with his melodies alas, why are my nights all thus lost ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep 27. Light, oh where is the light kindle it with the burning fire of desire there is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame is such thy fate my heart ah, death for better by far for thee misery knocks at thy door and her message is that thy lord is wakeful and he calls thee to the love crest through the darkness of night the sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is ceaseless I know not what this is that stirs in me I know not its meaning a moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom on my sight my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night calls me light, oh where is the light kindle it with the burning fire of desire it thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the void the night is black as a black stone let not the hours pass by in the dark kindle the lamp of love with thy life 28. obstinate at the trammels my heart aches when I try to break them freedom is all I want but to hope for it I feel ashamed I am certain that price's wealth is in thee and that thou art my best friend but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room the shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death I hate it yet hug it in love my debts are large my failures great my shame secret and heavy yet when I come to ask for my good I quick in fear lest my prayer be granted 29. he whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon I am ever busy building this wall all around and as this wall goes up into the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow I take pride in this great wall and I plaster it with dust and sand lest a least whole should be left in this name and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being 30. I came out alone on my way to my Trist but who is this that follows me in the silent dark I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not he makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter he is my own little self my lord he knows no shame but I am ashamed to come to thy door in his company End of Chapter 4 Recording by Hilara Verses 31 to 40 of Chitenshali this is a Libravox recording or Libravox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit Libravox.org Recording by Elie Chitenshali by Rabindranat Thakuri translated by the original author Verses 31 to 40 31 prisoner tell me who was it that bound you it was my master said the prisoner I thought I could outdo everybody and learn some power and I messed in my own treasure house the money due to my king and sleep overcame me and lay upon the bed it was for my lord and on waking up I found there was a prisoner in my own treasure house prisoner tell me who was it that brought this unbreakable chain it was I said the prisoner who forged this chain very carefully I saw my invincible power who told the world captive leaving me in the freedom undisturbed thus night and day I worked the chain with huge fires and cruel heart strokes and at last the work was done and the links were complete and unbreakable I found that it held me in its grip 32 by all means they tried to hold me secure who loved me in this world but it is otherwise with their love which is greater than theirs and thou keepest me free lest they forget them they never want you to leave me alone but they pass us off the day and thou art not seen if I call not thee in my prayers if I keep not thee in my heart thy love for me still waits for my love 33 when it was the day they came into my house and said we shall only take the smallest room here they said we shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share in his grace and then they took their seat in the corner and they said quiet and meek but in the darkness of night I find the break into my sacred shrine strong and turbulent and snatches an holy critter offerings from God's altar 34 let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all let only that little be left of my will whereby I may fill thee on every side and come to thee in everything and offer to thee my life every moment let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will and the purpose is carried out in my life and that is the fate of thy life 35. Where the mind is without fear, and the head is held high, where knowledge is free, where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls, where words come out from the depths of truce, where thailess driving stretches its arms towards perfection, where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of that habit, where the mind is led forward by teen to ever winding sword and action. Into that heaven of freedom my father led my country awake. 36. This is my prayer to thee, my lord. Strike, strike at the root of penury in my heart. Give me the strength slightly to be my choice and source. Give me the strength to make my life fruitful in service. Give me the strength never to this own the poor or bend my knees before insolent might. Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles, and give me the strength to surrender my strength to thine will with love. 37. I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of my power, that the path before me was closed, the provisions were exhausted, the time came to take shelter in a silent obscurity, but I find that thine 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, new countries reveal with its wonders. 38. That the one tea, only tea, let my heart repeat without end, all desires that distract me day and night are frozen empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom, the petitions of light, even tossing the depths of my unconsciousness, rings the cry. I want tea, only tea. As the storm still seeks its end in peace, when its strikes against peace with all its might, even toss my rebellion strikes against their love, and still its cry is. I want tea, only tea. When the heart is hard and patched up, come upon me with a shower of mercy. When crisis lost from life, come with a burst of song. When humultuous work raises its din on all sides, shutting me out from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with their peace and rest. When my beggarly heart seats crouched, shut up in the corner, break open the doormaking, and come with the ceremony of a king. When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, or their holy one, their wakeful, come with their light and their thunder. Forty. The rain has held back for days and days, my god, in my errat heart. The horizon is fiercely naked, not the thinest cover of a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower. Sent a angry storm, dark with death, if it is childish, and the slashes of lightning startled the sky from end to end. But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heart, still and keen and cool, burning the heart with tired despair. Let the cloud of grace burn low from above, like the tearful look of a mother on the day of her father's rest. End of verses 31 to 40, Recording by Elly, November 2009. Verses 41 to 50 of Gitanjali. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Runjun Kejriwan. Gitanjali by Tabindranath Tagore. Translated by the original author. Verses 41 to 50. Verse 41 Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows, they push thee and pass thee by on the dusky road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passes by come and take my flowers one by one, and my basket is nearly empty. The morning time is past and the noon. In shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and filled me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face. And when they ask me, what is it I want? I drop my eyes and answer them not. Oh! How indeed could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come? How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty? Ah! I hug this pride in the secret of my heart. I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming. All the lights ablaze, golden penins flying over thy car. And they, at the roadside, standing agape, when the seedy come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust and sit at thy side, this ragged, beggar girl, a tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in the summer breeze. But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shout and glamour of glory. It is only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow, silent and behind them all, and only I who would wait and weep, and wear out my heart in vain longing. Verse 42 Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail by in a boat, only though and I, never a soul in the world would know of this, our pilgrimage, to no country and to no end. In that shoreless ocean at thy silently listening smile, my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words. Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the sea birds come flying to their nests. Who knows when the chains will be off and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night? Verse 43 The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee and entering my heart unbidden, even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me. My King, thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting moment of my life. And today, when by chance I light upon them and see thy signature, I find they have lanes scattered in the dust, mixed with the memory of joys and sorrow of my trivial days forgotten. Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my play-doh are the same that I echoing from star to star. Verse 44 This is my delight, thus, to wait and watch at the wayside where shadow chases light and the rain comes in the wake of the summer. Messengers with tidings from unknown skies greet me and speed along the road. My heart is glad within, and the breath of the passing breeze is sweet. From dawn till dusk I sit here before my door, and I know that, of a sudden, the happy moment will arrive when I shall see. In the meanwhile I'll smile and I sing all along. In the meanwhile the air is filling with the perfume of promise. Verse 45 Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes. Every moment and every age, every day and every night, he comes, comes, ever comes. Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed he comes, comes, ever comes. In the fragrant day of sunny April through the forest path, he comes, comes, ever comes. In the rainy gloom of July nights thundering chariot of clouds, he comes, comes, ever comes. In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart and it is the goal-istant time though whatever, coming nearer to meet me, thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for ae. In many a morning in Eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messengers have come within my heart and called me in secret. I know not only why today my life is all a stir and the feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart. It is as if the time were come to wind up my work and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence. Verse 47 The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear, lest in the morning suddenly come to my door when I have fallen asleep, wearied out. Oh friends, leave the way open to him. Forbid him not. If the sounds of his steps does not wake me, do not try to rouse me, I pray. I wish not to be called from my sleep by the clamorous choir of birds, by the riot of wind at the festival of morning light. Let me sleep undisturbed even if my lord comes upon my precious sleep which only waits for his touch to vanish. Ah my closed eyes that would open thy lids only to the light of his smile when he stands before me like a dream emerging from darkness of sleep. Let him appear before my sight as the first of all light in all forms. The first thrill of joy to my awakened soul let it come from his glance and let my return to myself be immediate return to him. Verse 48 The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs. The flowers were all merry by the roadside and the earth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we bizz lent on our way and ignored heed. Time no glad songs nor played. We went not to the witch for barter. We spoke not a word nor smiled. We lingered not on the way. We quickened up more and more as the time sped by. The sun rose to the mid-sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves dart and whirled in hot air of noon. The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in shadow of the banyan tree. I laid myself down by the water and stretched my 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. They vanished in the distant blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills and passed through strange, out-of-way countries. All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable part. Mockering reproach, to me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a bad humiliation in the shadow of a dim delight. The response of the sun embroidered green gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had traveled and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs. At last, when I woke from my somber, opened my eyes. I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome and the struggle to reach thee was hard. Verse 49 You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door. I was singing all alone in a corner and the melody caught your ear. You came down and stood at my cottage door. Masters are many in your hall and songs are sung there at all hours, but the simple carol, the snowy, struck at your love. One plain, little strain mingled with the great music of the world and with a flower for a prize, you came down and stopped at my cottage door. Verse 50 I had gone a-begging from door to door in the village path, when thy golden chariot appeared in the distance like a gorgeous dream and I wondered, who was this king all kings? My hopes rose high and me thought my evil days were written in. And I stood waiting for arms to be given, unasked and for wealth scattered on all sides in the dust. The chariot stopped where I stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou camest down with a smile. I felt that the luck of my life had come at last. Then, of a sudden, thou didst hold out thy right hand and say, what has thou to give to me? Ah! What a kingly jest was it to open thy palm to a beggar to beg. I was confused and stood undecided and then from my wallet I slowly took out the leased little grain of corn and gave it to thee. But how great my surprise when at the day's end I emptied my bag on the floor to find a leased little gram of gold upon the poor heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had the heart to give thee my own. End of verse 41-50 Recording by Rujan Bangalore Verses 51-60 of Gitanjali This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Patty Cunningham Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore Translated by the original author Verses 51-60 51 The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought the last guest had arrived for the night and the doors in the village were all shut. Only some said the king was to come. We laughed and said, No, it cannot be. It seemed there were knocks at the door and we said it was nothing but the wind. We put out the lamps and lay down to sleep. Only some said, It is the messenger. We laughed and said, No, it must be the wind. There came a sound in the dead of the night. We sleepily thought it was the distant thunder. The earth shook, the walls rocked, the night 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 dark when the drum sounded. The voice came, Wake up! Delay not. We pressed our hands on our hearts and shuddered with fear. Some said, Lo, there is the king's flag. We stood up on our feet and cried, There is no time for delay. The king has come. But where are lights? Where are wreaths? Where is the throne to seat him? Oh, shame! Oh, utter shame! Where is the hall, the decorations? Someone has said, Vain is this cry. Greet him with empty hands. Lead him into thy rooms all bare. Open the doors. Let the conch-shells be sounded. In the depth of the night has come the king of our dark dreary house. The thunder roars in the sky. The darkness shudders with lightning. Bring out thy tattered piece of mat and spread it in the courtyard. With the storm has come of a sudden, our king of the fearful night. Fifty-two. I thought I should ask of thee, but I dared not. The rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning when thou didst depart the fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two. Ah, me! What is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks, Woman, what hast thou got? No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water. It is thy dreadful sword. I sit in muse and wonder, what gift is this of thine? I can find no place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine? From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my companion, and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world. From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coiness and sweetness of demeanor. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment, no more doll's decorations for me. 53 Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with stars and cunningly wrought in myriad coloured jewels, but more beautiful to me thy sword with its curve of lightning outspread wings of the divine bird of Vishnu, perfectly poised in the angry red light of the sunset. It quivers like the one last response of life in ecstasy of pain at the final stroke of death. It shines like the pure flame of being, burning up earthly sense with one fierce flash. Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked with starry gems, but thy sword, O Lord of Thunder, is wrought with utmost beauty, terrible to behold or think of. 54 I asked nothing from thee. I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou tookst thy leave, I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pictures full to the brim. They called me and shouted, Come with us. The morning is wearing on to noon. But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings. I heard not thy steps as thou cameist. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me. Thy voice was tired as thou spoke as low. Ah! I am a thirsty traveller. I started up from my daydreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead. The cuckoo sang from the unsing dark. And perfume of bubbly flowers came from the bend of the road. I stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late. In weary notes neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think. Fifty-five Langer is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes. Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendor among the thorns? Wake! Oh, awaken! Let not the time pass in vain. At the end of the stony path in the country of virgin solitude my friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him not! Wake! Oh, awaken! What if the sky pans and trembles with the heat of the midday sun? What if the burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst? Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours will not the harp of the road break out in sweet music of pain? Fifty-six Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. Oh, thou lord of all heavens where would be thy love if I were not? Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape. And for this thou who art the king of kings set thy self in beauty to captivate my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover and there art thou seen in the perfect union of two. Fifty-seven Light, my light the world-filling light the eye-kissing light heart-sweetening light Ah, the light dances my darling at the center of my life. The light strikes my darling the cords of my love the sky opens the wind runs wild laughter passes over the earth the butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light the light is shattered into gold on every cloud my darling and it scatters gems in profusion mirth spreads from leaf to leaf my darling and gladness without measure the heavens river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy is abroad Fifty-eight Let all the strains of joy mingle in my last song the joy that makes the earth flow over in the riotous excess of the grass the joy that sets the twin brothers life and death dancing over the wide world the joy that sweeps in with the tempest shaking and waking all life with laughter the joy that sits still with its tears on the open red lotus of pain and the joy that throws everything it has upon the dust and knows not a word Fifty-nine Yes, I know this is nothing but thy love O beloved of my heart this golden light that dances upon the leaves these idle clouds sailing across the sky this passing breeze leaving its coolness upon my forehead the morning light has flooded my eyes this is thy message to my heart thy face is bent from above thy eyes look down on my eyes and my heart has touched thy feet Sixty On the seashore of endless worlds children meet the infinite sky is motionless overhead restless water is boisterous On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances they build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells with withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep children have their play on the seashore of worlds they know not how to swim they know not how to cast nets pearl fishers dive for pearls merchants sail in their ships while children gather pebbles and scatter them again they seek not for hidden treasures they know not how to cast nets the sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle the sea plays with children and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach on the seashore of endless worlds children meet tempest roams in the pathless sky ships get wrecked in the trackless water death is abroad and children play on the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children End of verses 51 to 60 Recording by Patty Cunningham Verses 61 to 70 of Gitanjali This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Patty Cunningham Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore translated by the original author Verses 61 to 70 61 The sleep that flits on baby's eyes Does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumor that it has its dwelling there in the fairy village among the shadows of 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 when he sleeps Does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumor that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud And there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps The sweet soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs Does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love The sweet soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs 62 When I bring to you colored toys, my child I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water and why flowers are painted in tints When I give colored toys to you, my child When I sing to make you dance I truly know why there is music in leaves and why waves in their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth When I sing to make you dance When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling I truly understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body when I kiss you to make you smile 63 I forget that there abides the old in the new and that there also thou abidists Through birth and death in this world or in others wherever thou leadest me it is thou the same the one companion of my endless life whoever linkest my heart with the bonds of joy to the unfamiliar When one knows thee then alien there is none then no door is shut O grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the one in the play of many 64 On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her Maiden where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle My house is all dark and lonesome lend me your light She raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk I have come to the river, she said to float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west I stood alone among tall grasses and watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide In the silence of gathering night I asked her Maiden your lights are all lit then where do you go with your lamp My house is all dark and lonesome lend me your light She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful I have come, she said at last to dedicate my lamp to the sky I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void In the moonless gloom of midnight I asked her Maiden what is your quest holding your lamp near your heart My house is all dark and lonesome lend me your light She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark I have brought my light, she said to join the carnival of lamps I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights 65 What divine drink wouldst thou have, my god, from this overflowing cup of my life My poet is it thy delight to see your lamp in the dark I have come to the river I have come to the river I know it is it thy delight to see thy creation through my eyes and to stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to Thy known eternal harmony Thy world is weaving words in my mind and Thy joy is adding music to them Thou give us Thy self to me in love and then feelest Thy known entire sweetness in me 66 She who ever had remain in the depth of my being In the twilight of gleams and of glimpses, she, who never opened her veils in the morning light, will be my last gift to thee, my God, folded in my final song. Words have wooed, yet failed to win her. Persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain. I have roamed from country to country, keeping her in the core of my heart, and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life. Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams, she reigned, yet dwelled alone and apart. Many a man knocked at my door, and asked for her, and turned away in despair. There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face, and she remained in her loneliness, waiting for thy recognition. 67. Thou art the sky, and thou art the nest as well. Oh, thou beautiful, there in the nest is thy love that encloses the soul with colours and sounds and odours. There comes the morning, with the golden basket in her right hand bearing the wreath of beauty, silently to crown the earth. And there comes the evening over the lonely meadows deserted by herds, through trackless paths carrying cold drafts of peace in her golden pitcher from the western ocean of rest. But there, where spreads the infinite sky for the soul to take her flight in, reigns the stainless white radiance. There is no day nor night, nor form nor colour, and never, never a word. 68. Thy sunbeam comes upon this earth of mine, with arms outstretched, and stands at my door the live long day to carry back to thy feet clouds made of my tears and sighs and songs. With bondolite thou wrappest about thy starry breast, that mantle of misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds, and colouring it with hues ever changing. It is so light and so fleeting, tender and tearful and dark, that is why thou lovest it, O thou spotless and serene, and that is why it may cover thy awful white light with its pathetic shadows. 69. The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass, and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life, and my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment. 70. Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm, to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy? All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind. No power can hold them back, they rush on. Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away. Colors, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment. 70. End of Verses 61 to 70, Recording by Patty Cunningham. Verses 71 to 80 of Gitanjali. This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox Recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Karl Manchester 2010. Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore. Translated by the original author. Verses 71 to 80, 71. That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance. Such is thy mayor. Thou setest a barrier in thine own being, and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me. The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes. Dreams rise up and sink again. Dreams break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self. This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures, with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves, casting away all barren lines of straightness. The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant, and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me. 72. He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches. He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes, and joyfully plays on the cords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this mayor in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green, and lets peep out through the folds his feet, at whose touch I forget myself. Days come and ages pass, and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow. 73. Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand bonds of delight. Thou ever poorest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various colours and fragrance, filling this earthen vessel to the brim. My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and place them before the altar of thy temple. No I will never shut the doors of my senses, the delights of sight and hearing and touch will bear thy delight. Yes, all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy, and all my desires ripen into fruits of love. 74. The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go to the stream to fill my picture. The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passerby, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant on the river. I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays upon his lute. 75. Thy gifts to us mortals fulfill our needs and yet run back to thee undiminished. The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and hamlets, yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy feet. The flower sweetens the air with its perfume, yet its last service is to offer itself to thee. Thy worship does not impoverish the world. From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them, yet their last meaning points to thee. 76. Day after day, O Lord of my life, shall I stand before thee face to face. With folded hands, O Lord of all worlds, shall I stand before thee face to face. Under the great sky in solitude and silence, with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face. In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil and with struggle, among hurrying crowds, shall I stand before thee face to face. And when my work shall be done in this world, O King of Kings, alone and speechless, shall I stand before thee face to face. 77. I know thee as my God and stand apart. I do not know thee as my own, and come closer. I know thee as my Father and bow before thy feet. I do not grasp thy hand as my friends. I stand not where thou comest down, and onest thyself as mine. There to clasp thee to my heart, and take thee as my comrade. Thou art the brother amongst my brothers, but I need them not. I divide not my earnings with them, thus sharing my all with thee. In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men, and thus stand by thee. I shrink to give up my life, and thus do not plunge into the great waters of life. 78. When the creation was new, and all the stars shone in their first splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky, and sang, O the picture of perfection, the joy unalloyed. But one cried of a sudden, it seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light, and one of the stars has been lost. The golden string of their harp snapped, their song stopped, and they cried in dismay, Yes, that lost star was the best, she was the glory of all heavens. And that day the search is unceasing for her, and the cry goes on from one to the other, that in her the world has lost its one joy. Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile, and whisper among themselves, Vain is this seeking, and broken perfection is over all. 79. If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life, then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight. Let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams, and in my wakeful hours. As my days pass in the crowded market of this world, and my hands grow full with the daily profits, let me ever feel that I have gained nothing. Let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams, and in my wakeful hours. When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me. Let me not forget a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams, and in my wakeful hours. When my rooms have been decked out, and the flutes sound, and the laughter there is loud, let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house. Let me not forget for a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams, and in my wakeful hours. Eighty, I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn, uselessly roaming in the sky. O my sun ever glorious, thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years 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, float it on the wanton wind, and spread it in varied wonders. And again, when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall meet and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning in a coolness of purity transparent. CHAPTER V. 71-80 On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time, but it is never lost, my lord. Thou has taken every moment of my life in thine own hands. Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts, buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness. I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed, and imagined all work had ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders of flowers. CHAPTER V. 82 Time is endless in thy hands, my lord. There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass, and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou knowest how to wait. Thy centuries follow each other, perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for chances. We are too poor to be late. Thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every queerless man who claims it, and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut, but I find that yet there is time. 83. Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. Wealth and fame come from thee, and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee is my offering, thou rewardest me with thy grace. 84. It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky. It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from star to star, and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness of July. It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires, into sufferings and joy in human homes. And this it is that ever melts and flows in songs through my poet's heart. 85. When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where had they hid their power? Where were their armor and their arms? They looked poor and helpless, and the arrows were showered upon them on the day they came out from their master's hall. When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall, where did they hide their power? They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow. Peace was on their foreheads, and they had left the fruits of their life behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall. 86. Death thy servant is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea, and brought thy call to my home. The night is dark, and my heart is fearful. Yet I will take up the lamp, open my gates, and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who stands at my door. I will worship him, placing at his feet the treasure 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 forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee. 87. In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room I find her not. My house is small, and what once has gone from it can never be regained. But infinite is thy mansion, my lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door. I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky, and I lift my eager face to thy face. I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish. No hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean. Plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe. 88. Deity of the ruined temple. The broken strings of vena sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of worship. The air is still and silent about you. In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings of flowers, the flowers that for your worship are offered no more. Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favor still refused. In the eventide when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart. Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit. Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the holy stream of oblivion when their time has come. Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless neglect. 89. No more noisy, loud words from me, such as my master's will, henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song. Men hasten to the king's market. All the buyers and sellers are there, but I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day in the thick of work. Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time, and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum. Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him. And I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence. 90. On the day when death will knock at thy door, what wilt thou offer to him? Oh, I will set before my guest the full vessel of my life. I will never let him go with empty hands. All the sweet vintage of all my autumn days and summer nights, all the earnings and gleaning of my busy life, will I place before him at the close of my days, when death will knock at my door. End of verses 81 to 90, recording by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada. Verses 91 to 103 of Gitanjali. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sean Michael Hogan. Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore. Translated by the original author. Verses 91 to 103. 91. O thou, the last fulfillment of life, death, my death, come and whisper to me. Day after day I have kept watch for thee, for thee have I borne the joys and pangs of life. All that I am, that I have, that I hope and all my love, have ever flowed towards thee in depth of secrecy. One final glance from thine eyes and my life will be ever thine own. The flowers have been woven, and the garland is ready for the bridegroom. After the wedding the bride shall leave her home and meet her Lord alone in the solitude of night. 92. I know that the day will come when my sight of this earth shall be lost, and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes. Yet stars will watch at night and morning rise as before, and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains. When I think of this end of my moments, the barrier of the moments breaks, and I see by the light of death thy world with its careless treasures, rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its meanest of lives. Things that I longed for in vain and things that I got, let them pass. Let me but truly possess the things that I ever spurned and overlooked. 93. I have got my leave. Big me farewell, my brothers. I bow to you all and take my departure. Here I give back the keys of my door, and I give up all claims to my house. I only ask for last kind words from you. We were neighbours for long, but I received more than I could give. Now the day has dawned, and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out. A summons has come, and I am ready for my journey. 94. At this time of my parting wish me good luck, my friends. The sky is flushed with the dawn, and my path lies beautiful. Ask not what I have with me to take there. I start on my journey with empty hands and expectant heart. I shall put on my wedding garland. Mine is not the red-brown dress of the traveller, and though there are dangers on the way, I have no fear in mind. The evening star will come out when my voyage is done, and the plaintive notes of the twilight melodies be struck up from the king's gateway. 95. I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me, and because I love this life I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away, in the very next moment to find in the left one its consolation. 96. When I go from hence let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable. I have tasted of the hidden honey of this lotus that expands on the ocean of light, and thus am I blessed. Let this be my parting word. In this playhouse of infinite forms I have had my play, and here have I caught sight of him that is formless. My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch, and if the end comes here let it come. Let this be my parting word. 97. When my play was with thee I never questioned who thou were. I knew nor shyness nor fear, my life was boisterous. In the early morning thou wouldst call me from my sleep like my own comrade, and lead me running from glade to glade. On those days I never cared to know the meaning of songs thou sangest to me. Only my voice took up the tunes, and my heart danced in their cadence. Now when the playtime is over what is this sudden sight that has come upon me, the world with eyes bent upon thy feet stands in awe with all its silent stars. 98. I will deck thee with trophies, garlands of mighty feet. It is never in my power to escape unconquered. I surely know my pride will go to the wall, my life will burst its bonds in exceeding pain, and my empty heart will sob out in music like a hollow reed, and the stone will melt in tears. I surely know the hundred petals of a lotus will not remain closed for ever, and the secret recess of its honey will be bared. From the blue sky an eye shall gaze upon me and summon me in silence. Nothing will be left for me, nothing whatever, and utter death shall I receive at thy feet. 99. When I give up the helm I know that the time has come for thee to take it. What there is to do will be instantly done. Vain is this struggle. Then take away your hands and silently put up with your defeat, my heart, and think at your good fortune to sit perfectly still where you are placed. These my lamps are blown out at every little puff of wind, and trying to light them I forget all else again and again. But I shall be wise this time and wait in the dark, spreading my mat on the floor. And whenever it is thy pleasure, my lord, come silently and take thy seat here. 100. I dive down into the depth of the ocean of forms, hoping to gain the perfect pearl of the formless. No more sailing from harbour to harbour with this my weather-beaten boat. The days are long past when my sport was to be tossed on waves, and now I am eager to die into the deathless. To the audience hall by the fathomless abyss where swells up the music of toneless strings I shall take this harp of my life. I shall tune it to the notes of forever, and when it has sobbed out its last utterance lay down my silent harp at the feet of the silent. 101. Ever in my life have I sought thee with my songs. It was they who led me from door to door, and with them have I felt about me, searching and touching my world. It was my songs that taught me all the lessons I ever learned. They showed me secret paths, they brought before my sight many a star on the horizon of my heart. They guided me all the day long to the mysteries of the country of pleasure and pain, and at last to what palace gate have they brought me in the evening at the end of my journey. 102. I boasted among men that I had known you. They see your pictures in all works of 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, and they go away and scorn, and you sit there smiling. I put my tales of you into lasting songs. The secret gushes out from my heart. They come and ask me, tell me all your meanings. I know not how to answer them. I say, ah, who knows what they mean. They smile and go away in utter scorn, and you sit there smiling. 103. In one salutation to thee, my God, let all my senses spread out and touch this world at thy feet. Like a rain cloud of July hung low with its burden of unshed showers, let all my mind bend down at thy door in one salutation to thee. Let all my songs gather together their diverse strains into a single current, and flow to a sea of silence in one salutation to thee. Like a flock of homesick cranes flying night and day back to their mountain nests, let all my life take its voyage to its eternal home in one salutation to thee. End of verses 91 to 103, recording by Sean Michael Hogan, St. John's Newfoundland, Canada. End of Kitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore, translated by the original author.