Poetry. Rabindranath Tagore

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      I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road.

       Now, in the cool of the evening, I knock at the door of the inn.

       It is deserted and in ruins.

       A grim ashath tree spreads its hungry clutching roots through the gaping fissures of the walls. Days have been when wayfarers came here to wash their weary feet. They spread their mats in the courtyard in the dim light of the early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands. They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside. But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here. The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall. Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path. I am the guest of no one at the end of my day. The long night is before me, and I am tired.

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      Is that your call again?

       The evening has come.

       Weariness clings around me like the arms of entreating love.

       Do you call me?

       I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob me of my night?

       Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the dark is one's own.

       Must your voice cut through it and smite me?

       Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?

       Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your pitiless tower?

       Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your garden?

       Must you call me, you unquiet one?

       Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.

       Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.

       Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.

       I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.

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      A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate.

       Before him the endless ocean roared.

       The garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures, mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning.

       Maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for the search had become his life,—

       Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the unattainable—

       Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can never be reached—

       Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks still roamed in search of the touchstone.

       One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you come at this golden chain about your waist?"

       The madman started—the chain that once was iron was verily gold; it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed.

       He struck his forehead wildly—where, O where had he without knowing it achieved success?

       It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the chain, and to throw them away without looking to see if a change had come; thus the madman found and lost the touchstone.

       The sun was sinking low in the west, the sky was of gold.

       The madman returned on his footsteps to seek anew the lost treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart in the dust, like a tree uprooted.

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      Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled for all songs to cease;

       Though your companions have gone to their rest and you are tired;

       Though fear broods in the dark and the face of the sky is veiled;

       Yet, bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

       That is not the gloom of the leaves of the forest, that is the sea swelling like a dark black snake.

       That is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashing foam.

       Ah, where is the sunny green shore, where is your nest?

       Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

       The lone night lies along your path, the dawn sleeps behind the shadowy hills.

       The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon swims the deep night.

       Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

       There is no hope, no fear for you.

       There is no word, no whisper, no cry.

       There is no home, no bed for rest.

       There is only your own pair of wings and the pathless sky.

       Bird, O my bird, listen to me, do not close your wings.

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      None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long.

       Keep that in mind and rejoice.

       Our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one long journey.

       One sole poet has not to sing one aged song.

       The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever.

       Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

       There must come a full pause to weave perfection into music.

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