Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

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СКАЧАТЬ men bring stones.

      I touch God in my song

       as the hill touches the far-away sea

       with its waterfall.

      Light finds her treasure of colours

       through the antagonism of clouds.

      My heart to-day smiles at its past night of tears

       like a wet tree glistening in the sun

       after the rain is over.

      I have thanked the trees that have made my life fruitful,

       but have failed to remember the grass

       that has ever kept it green.

      The one without second is emptiness,

       the other one makes it true.

      Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty

       that can modulate their isolation

       into a harmony with the whole.

      They expect thanks for the banished nest

       because their cage is shapely and secure.

      In love I pay my endless debt to thee

       for what thou art.

      The pond sends up its lyrics from its dark in lilies,

       and the sun says, they are good.

      Your calumny against the great is impious,

       it hurts yourself;

       against the small it is mean,

       for it hurts the victim.

      The first flower that blossomed on this earth

       was an invitation to the unborn song.

      Dawn—the many-coloured flower—fades,

       and then the simple light-fruit,

       the sun appears.

      The muscle that has a doubt if its wisdom

       throttles the voice that would cry.

      The wind tries to take the flame by storm

       only to blow it out.

      Life's play is swift,

       Life's playthings fall behind one by one

       and are forgotten.

      My flower, seek not thy paradise

       in a fool's buttonhole.

      Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon,

       but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.

      Darkness is the veiled bride

       silently waiting for the errant light

       to return to her bosom.

      Trees are the earth's endless effort to

       speak to the listening heaven.

      The burden of self is lightened

       when I laugh at myself.

      The weak can be terrible

       because they try furiously to appear strong.

      The wind of heaven blows,

       The anchor desperately clutches the mud,

       and my boat is beating its breast against the chain.

      The spirit of death is one,

       the spirit of life is many.

      When God is dead religion becomes one.

      The blue of the sky longs for the earth's green,

       the wind between them sighs, "Alas."

      Day's pain muffled by its own glare,

       burns among stars in the night.

      The stars crowd round the virgin night

       in silent awe at her loneliness

       that can never be touched.

      The cloud gives all its gold

       to the departing sun

       and greets the rising moon

       with only a pale smile.

      He who does good comes to the temple gate,

       he who loves reaches the shrine.

      Flower, have pity for the worm,

       it is not a bee,

       its love is a blunder and a burden.

      With the ruins of terror's triumph

       children build their doll's house.

      The lamp waits through the long day of neglect

       for the flame's kiss in the night.

      Feathers in the dust lying lazily content

       have forgotten their sky.

      The flowers which is single

       need not envy the thorns

       that are numerous.

      The world suffers most from the disinterested tyranny

       of its well-wisher.

      We gain freedom when we have paid the full price

       for our right to live.

      Your careless gifts of a moment,

       like the meteors of an autumn night,

       catch fire in the depth of my being.

      The faith waiting in the heart of a seed

       promises a miracle of life

       which it cannot prove at once.

      Spring hesitates at winter's door,

       but the mango blossom rashly runs out to him

       before her time and meets her doom.

      The world is the ever-changing foam

       that floats on the СКАЧАТЬ