Gitanjali
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?
56.
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast
come down to me. O 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 hast decked thyself 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.
57.
Light, my light, the world-filling light, the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the centre of my life; the light
strikes, my darling, the chords 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 heaven’s river has drowned its banks and the flood of joy
is abroad.
58.
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.
59.
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.
60.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is
motionless overhead and the 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.
61.
The sleep that flits on baby’s eyes—does anybody know from where it
comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling there, in the
fairy village among 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 rumour 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 coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is
such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted
in tints—when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send 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 surely
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.
Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me
seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made
a brother of the stranger.
I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I
forget that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou
abidest.
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
who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar.
When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut.
Oh, 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 ask her, “Maiden, what is your
quest, holding the 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 thy creation through my eyes and to
stand at the portals of my ears silently to listen to thine own eternal
harmony?
Thy world is weaving words in my mind and thy joy is adding music to
them. Thou givest thyself to me in love and then feelest thine own
entire sweetness in me.
66.
She who ever had remained 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.
O 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 cool draughts 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 livelong day to carry back to thy feet clouds
made of my tears and sighs and songs.
With fond delight thou wrappest about thy starry breast that mantle of
misty cloud, turning it into numberless shapes and folds and colouring
it with hues everchanging.
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—colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades in the
abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.
71.
That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides, thus
casting coloured shadows on thy radiance—such is thy _maya_.
Thou settest 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; waves 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 chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this _maya_ 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