No More Learning

Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee
on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee
my love 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 thy purpose is carried out in my life--and
that is the fetter of thy love.


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 depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the
dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought
and action--

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.


This is my prayer to thee, my lord--strike, strike at the root of
penury in my heart.

Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.

Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.

Give me the strength never to disown 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 thy will
with love.


I thought that my voyage had come to its end at the last limit of
my power,--that the path before me was closed, that provisions
were exhausted and the time come to take shelter in a silent
obscurity.

But I find that thy 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 country is revealed with
its wonders.


That I want thee, only thee--let my heart repeat without end.
All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty
to the core.

As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light,
even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry--'I
want thee, only thee'.

As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against
peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against
thy love and still its cry is--'I want thee, only thee'.


When the heart is hard and parched up, come upon me with a shower
of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out
from beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and
rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break
open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy
one, thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder.


The rain has held back for days and days, my God, in my arid
heart. The horizon is fiercely naked--not the thinnest cover of
a soft cloud, not the vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.

Send thy angry storm, dark with death, if it is thy wish, and
with lashes of lightning startle the sky from end to end.

But call back, my lord, call back this pervading silent heat,
still and keen and cruel, burning the heart with dire despair.

Let the cloud of grace bend low from above like the tearful look
of the mother on the day of the father's wrath.


Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself
in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty
road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading
my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers,
one by one, and my basket is nearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening
my eyes are drowsy with sleep. 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.

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 pennons
flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape,
when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the
dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with
shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.

But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy
chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and
glamour of glory. Is it 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?


Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat,
only thou and I, and 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
seabirds 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?


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 lain scattered in the dust mixed with the memory
of joys and sorrows 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 playroom are the same that are
echoing from star to star.


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 smile and I sing all alone. In the meanwhile
the air is filling with the perfume of promise.


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 days of sunny April through the forest path he
comes, comes, ever comes.

In the rainy gloom of July nights on the 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 golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to
shine.


I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to
meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me
for aye.

In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy
messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.

I know not only why today my life is all astir, and a 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.


The night is nearly spent waiting for him in vain. I fear lest
in the morning he 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 of
a sudden to my door.

Ah, my sleep, precious sleep, which only waits for his touch to
vanish. Ah, my closed eyes that would open their 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 lights and 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.


The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and
the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of
gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily
went on our way and paid no heed.

We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for
barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the
way. We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.

The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade.
Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The
shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan
tree, and 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, far-away countries. All honour to
you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach
pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself
up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation--in the shadow of
a dim delight.

The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly spread over
my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered
my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.

At last, when I woke from my slumber and 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!


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 of this novice struck at your love.
One plaintive 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.


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 of all kings!

My hopes rose high and methought my evil days were at an end, and
I stood waiting for alms 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 hast 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 least 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 least little gram of gold among the poor
heap. I bitterly wept and wished that I had had the heart to
give thee my all.


The night darkened. Our day's works had been done. We thought
that 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,
and it 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 still 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.


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, to find a few 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 and muse in 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 coyness and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy
sword for adornment. No more doll's decorations for me!


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 like the 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 uttermost beauty,
terrible to behold or think of.


I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear.
When thou took'st 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 pitchers 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 camest. Thine eyes were sad when
they fell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low--'Ah, I
am a thirsty traveller. ' I started up from my day-dreams and
poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled
overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of
_babla_ 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, the bird sings in weary notes, _neem_ leaves
rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.


Languor 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
splendour among 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 pants 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?


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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 name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of
sorrow.


Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of
freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

Thou ever pourest 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.


The day is no more, the shadow is upon the earth. It is time
that I go to the stream to fill my pitcher.

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
passer-by, the wind is up, the ripples are rampant in 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.


Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all 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.


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 thy 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.


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 friend's.

I stand not where thou comest down and ownest 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 heed 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.


When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first
splendour, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang 'Oh,
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! '

From 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! unbroken perfection is
over all! '


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.


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 melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile
of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.


On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is
never lost, my lord. Thou hast 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.


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
a chances. We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every
querulous 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.


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 as my offering thou rewardest me with thy
grace.


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.


When the warriors came out first from their master's hall, where
had they hid their power? Where were their armour 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.


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.


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 to
come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift
my eager eyes 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.


Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of _Vina_
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 favour 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 is come.

Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in
deathless neglect.


No more noisy, loud words from me--such is my master's will.
Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be
carried on in murmurings of a song.