Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

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СКАЧАТЬ the busy hour of the day we come upon him of a sudden, sitting on the wayside grass.

      We march when he beats his drum.

      We dance when he sings.

      We stake our joys and sorrows to play his game to the end

      He stands at the helm of our boat,

      With him we rock on the perilous waves.

      For him we light our lamp and wait when our day is done.

      61

      Run to his side as his comrades where he works with all workers.

      Sit around him as his partners where he plays his games.

      Follow him where he marches, keeping step to the rhythm of his drumbeats.

      Rush into the thick of the fair—the fair of life and death—

      For there he is with the crowd in the heart of its tumult.

      Do not falter in your journey across the lonely hills over the thorns.

      For his call sounds at every step and we know that it is love’s voice.

      62

      When bells sounded in your temple in the morning, men and women hastened down the woodland path with their offerings of fresh flowers.

      But I lay on the grass in the shade and let them pass by.

      I think it was well that I was idle, for then my flowers were in bud.

      At the end of the day they have bloomed, and I go to my evening worship.

      63

      My King’s road that lies still before my house makes my heart wistful.

      It stretches its beckoning hand towards me; its silence calls me out of my home; with dumb entreaties it kisses my feet at every step.

      It leads me on I know not to what abandonment, to what sudden gain or surprises of distress.

      I know not where its windings end—

      But my King’s road that lies still before my house makes my heart wistful.

      64

      While I walk to my King’s house at the end of the day the travellers come to ask me—

      “What hast thou for King’s tribute?”

      I do not know what to show them or how to answer, for I have merely this song.

      My preparation is large in my house, where the claim is much and many are the claimants.

      But when I come to my King’s house I have only this single song to offer it for his wreath.

      65

      My songs are the same as are the spring flowers, they come from you.

      Yet I bring these to you as my own.

      You smile and accept them, and you are glad at my joy of pride.

      If my song flowers are frail and they fade and drop in the dust, I shall never grieve.

      For absence is not loss in your hand, and the fugitive moments that blossom in beauty are kept ever fresh in your wreath.

      66

      My King, thou hast called me to play my flute at the roadside, that they who hear the burden of voiceless life may slop in their errands for a moment and sit and wonder before the balcony of thy palace gate; that they may see anew the ever old and find afresh what is ever about them, and say, “The flowers are in bloom, and the birds sing.”

      67

      When my first early songs woke in my heart I thought they were the playmates of the morning flowers.

      When they shook their wings and flew into the wilderness it seemed to me that they had the spirit of the summer which comes down with a sudden thunder roar to spend its all in laughter.

      I thought that they had the mad call of the storm to rush and lose their way beyond the sunset land.

      But now when in the evening light I see the blue line of the shore,

      I know my songs are the boat that has brought me to the harbour across the wild sea.

      68

      There are numerous strings in your lute, let me add my own among them.

      Then when you smite your chords my heart will break its silence and my life will be one with your song.

      Amidst your numberless stars let me place my own little lamp.

      In the dance of your festival of lights my heart will throb and my life will be one with your smile.

      69

      Let my song be simple as the waking in the morning, as the dripping of dew from the leaves,

      Simple as the colours in clouds and showers of rain in the midnight.

      But my lute strings are newly strung and they dart their notes like spears sharp in their newness.

      Thus they miss the spirit of the wind and hurt the light of the sky; and these strains of my songs fight hard to push back thy own music.

      70

      I have seen thee play thy music in life’s dancing hall; in the sudden leaf-burst of spring thy laughter has come to greet me; and lying among field flowers I have heard in the grass thy whisper.

      The child has brought to my house the message of thy hope, and the woman the music of thy love.

      Now I am waiting on the seashore to feel thee in death, to find life’s refrain back again in the star songs of the night.

      71

      I remember my childhood when the sunrise, like my play-fellow, would burst in to my bedside with its daily surprise of morning; when the faith in the marvellous bloomed like fresh flowers in my heart every day, looking into the face of the world in simple gladness; when insects, birds and beasts, the common weeds, grass arid the clouds had their fullest value of wonder; when the patter of rain at night brought dreams from the fairyland, and mother’s voice in the evening gave meaning to the stars.

      And then I think of death, and the rise of the curtain and the new morning and my life awakened in its fresh surprise of love.

      72

      When my heart did not kiss thee in love, O world, thy light missed its full splendour and thy sky watched through the long night with its lighted lamp.

      My heart came with her СКАЧАТЬ