Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore
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Название: Poetry
Автор: Rabindranath Tagore
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4064066395971
isbn:
Is it then true that the mystery of the Infinite is written on this little forehead of mine?
Tell me, my lover, if all this be true.
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I love you, beloved. Forgive me my love.
Like a bird losing its way I am caught.
When my heart was shaken it lost its veil and was naked.
Cover it with pity, beloved, and forgive me my love.
If you cannot love me, beloved, forgive me my pain.
Do not look askance at me from afar.
I will steal back to my corner and sit in the dark.
With both hands I will cover my naked shame.
Turn your face from me, beloved, and forgive me my pain.
If you love me, beloved, forgive me my joy.
When my heart is borne away by the flood of happiness,
do not smile at my perilous abandonment.
When I sit on my throne and rule you with my tyranny of love,
when like a goddess I grant you my favour, bear with my pride,
beloved, and forgive me my joy.
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Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when I am sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I start up and stretch my hands to touch you.
I ask myself, "Is it a dream?"
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast to my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
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Lest I should know you too easily, you play with me.
You blind me with flashes of laughter to hide your tears.
I know, I know your art.
You never say the word you would.
Lest I should not prize you, you elude me in a thousand ways.
Lest I should confuse you with the crowd, you stand aside.
I know, I know your art,
You never walk the path you would.
Your claim is more than that of others, that is why you are silent.
With playful carelessness you avoid my gifts.
I know, I know your art,
You never will take what you would.
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He whispered, "My love, raise your eyes."
I sharply chid him, and said "Go!"; but he did not stir.
He stood before me and held both my hands.
I said, "Leave me!"; but he did not go.
He brought his face near my ear.
I glanced at him and said,
"What a shame!"; but he did not move.
His lips touched my cheek.
I trembled and said, "You dare too much;" but he had no shame.
He put a flower in my hair.
I said, "It is useless!"; but he stood unmoved.
He took the garland from my neck and went away.
I weep and ask my heart, "Why does he not come back?"
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Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck, fair one?
But you must know that the one wreath that I had woven is for the many, for those who are seen in glimpses, or dwell in lands unexplored, or live in poets' songs.
It is too late to ask my heart in return for yours.
There was a time when my life was like a bud, all its perfume was stored in its core.
Now it is squandered far and wide.
Who knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again?
My heart is not mine to give to one only, it is given to the many.
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My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his mind.
Alas, I was not careful, and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief.
It broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet.
All my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank.
You must make this loss good to me, my love.
If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, make me immortal while I live.
And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.
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