Complete Works. Rabindranath Tagore

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      In the night the song came to me; but you were not there.

      It found the words for which I had been seeking all day. Yes, in the stillness a moment after dark they throbbed into music, even as the stars then began to pulse with light; but you were not there. My hope was to sing it to you in the morning; but, try as I might, though the music came, the words hung back, when you were beside me.

      18

      The night deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp.

      I forgot to notice when the evening—like a village girl who has filled her pitcher at the river a last time for that day—closed the door on her cabin.

      I was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my voice—tell me, had it any meaning? Did it bring you any message from beyond life's borders?

      For now, since my voice has ceased, I feel the night throbbing with thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness.

      19

      When we two first met my heart rang out in music, "She who is eternally afar is beside you for ever."

      That music is silent, because I have grown to believe that my love is only near, and have forgotten that she is also far, far away.

      Music fills the infinite between two souls. This has been muffled by the mist of our daily habits.

      On shy summer nights, when the breeze brings a vast murmur out of the silence, I sit up in my bed and mourn the great loss of her who is beside me. I ask myself, "When shall I have another chance to whisper to her words with the rhythm of eternity in them?"

      Wake up, my song, from thy languor, rend this screen of the familiar, and fly to my beloved there, in the endless surprise of our first meeting!

      20

      Lovers come to you, my Queen, and proudly lay their riches at your feet: but my tribute is made up of unfulfilled hopes.

      Shadows have stolen across the heart of my world and the best in me has lost light.

      While the fortunate laugh at my penury, I ask you to lend my failings your tears, and so make them precious.

      I bring you a voiceless instrument.

      I strained to reach a note which was too high in my heart, and the string broke.

      While masters laugh at the snapped cord, I ask you to take my lute in your hands and fill its hollowness with your songs.

      21

      The father came back from the funeral rites.

      His boy of seven stood at the window, with eyes wide open and a golden amulet hanging from his neck, full of thoughts too difficult for his age.

      His father took him in his arms and the boy asked him, "Where is mother?"

      "In heaven," answered his father, pointing to the sky.

      At night the father groaned in slumber, weary with grief.

      A lamp dimly burned near the bedroom door, and a lizard chased moths on the wall.

      The boy woke up from sleep, felt with his hands the emptiness in the bed, and stole out to the open terrace.

      The boy raised his eyes to the sky and long gazed in silence. His bewildered mind sent abroad into the night the question, "Where is heaven?"

      No answer came: and the stars seemed like the burning tears of that ignorant darkness.

      22

      She went away when the night was about to wane.

      My mind tried to console me by saying, "All is vanity."

      I felt angry and said, "That unopened letter with her name on it, and this palm-leaf fan bordered with red silk by her own hands, are they not real?"

      The day passed, and my friend came and said to me, "Whatever is good is true, and can never perish."

      "How do you know?" I asked impatiently; "was not this body good which is now lost to the world?"

      As a fretful child hurting its own mother, I tried to wreck all the shelters that ever I had, in and about me, and cried, "This world is treacherous."

      Suddenly I felt a voice saying—"Ungrateful!"

      I looked out of the window, and a reproach seemed to come from the star-sprinkled night,—"You pour out into the void of my absence your faith in the truth that I came!"

      23

      The river is grey and the air dazed with blown sand.

      On a morning of dark disquiet, when the birds are mute and their nests shake in the gust, I sit alone and ask myself, "Where is she?"

      The days have flown wherein we sat too near each other; we laughed and jested, and the awe of love's majesty found no words at our meetings.

      I made myself small, and she trifled away every moment with pelting talk.

      To-day I wish in vain that she were by me, in the gloom of the coming storm, to sit in the soul's solitude.

      24

      The name she called me by, like a flourishing jasmine, covered the whole seventeen years of our love. With its sound mingled the quiver of the light through the leaves, the scent of the grass in the rainy night, and the sad silence of the last hour of many an idle day.

      Not the work of God alone was he who answered to that name; she created him again for herself during those seventeen swift years.

      Other years were to follow, but their vagrant days, no longer gathered within the fold of that name uttered in her voice, stray and are scattered.

      They ask me, "Who should fold us?"

      I find no answer and sit silent, and they cry to me while dispersing, "We seek a shepherdess!"

      Whom should they seek?

      That they do not know. And like derelict evening clouds they drift in the trackless dark, and are lost and forgotten.

      25

      I feel that your brief days of love have not been left behind in those scanty years of your life.

      I seek to know in what place, away from the slow-thieving dust, you keep them now. I find in my solitude some song of your evening that died, yet left a deathless echo; and the sighs of your unsatisfied hours I find nestled in the warm quiet of the autumn noon.

      Your desires come from the hive of the past to haunt my heart, and I sit still to listen to their wings.

      26

      You have taken a bath in the dark sea. You are once again СКАЧАТЬ