The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

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LXI

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      She is still a child, my lord.

      She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well.

      She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust.

      She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not—and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands.

      When the storm bursts and darkness is over the sky she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror.

      She is afraid that she may fail in service to you.

      But with a smile you watch her at her game.

      You know her.

      The child sitting in the dust is your destined bride; her play will be stilled and deepened into love.

LXII

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      "What is there but the sky, O Sun, that can hold thine image?"

      "I dream of thee, but to serve thee I can never hope," the dewdrop wept and said, "I am too small to take thee unto me, great lord, and my life is all tears."

      "I illumine the limitless sky, yet I can yield myself up to a tiny drop of dew," thus the Sun said; "I shall become but a sparkle of light and fill you, and your little life will be a laughing orb."

LXIII

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      Not for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to waste.

      Send me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars.

      Send me the love that would soak down into the centre of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and flowers.

      Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fulness of peace.

LXIV

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      The sun had set on the western margin of the river among the tangle of the forest.

      The hermit boys had brought the cattle home, and sat round the fire to listen to the master, Guatama, when a strange boy came, and greeted him with fruits and flowers, and, bowing low at his feet, spoke in a bird-like voice—"Lord, I have come to thee to be taken into the path of the supreme Truth.

      "My name is Satyakâma."

      "Blessings be on thy head," said the master.

      "Of what clan art thou, my child? It is only fitting for a

       Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom."

      "Master," answered the boy, "I know not of what clan I am. I shall go and ask my mother."

      Thus saying, Satyakâma took leave, and wading across the shallow stream, came back to his mother's hut, which stood at the end of the sandy waste at the edge of the sleeping village.

      The lamp burnt dimly in the room, and the mother stood at the door in the dark waiting for her son's return.

      She clasped him to her bosom, kissed him on his hair, and asked him of his errand to the master.

      "What is the name of my father, dear mother?" asked the boy.

      "It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom, said Lord Guatama to me."

      The woman lowered her eyes, and spoke in a whisper.

      "In my youth I was poor and had many masters. Thou didst come to thy mother Jabâlâ's arms, my darling, who had no husband."

      The early rays of the sun glistened on the tree-tops of the forest hermitage.

      The students, with their tangled hair still wet with their morning bath, sat under the ancient tree, before the master.

      There came Satyakâma.

      He bowed low at the feet of the sage, and stood silent.

      "Tell me," the great teacher asked him, "of what clan art thou?"

      "My lord," he answered, "I know it not. My mother said when I asked her, 'I had served many masters in my youth, and thou hadst come to thy mother Jabâlâ's arms, who had no husband.'"

      There rose a murmur like the angry hum of bees disturbed in their hive; and the students muttered at the shameless insolence of that outcast.

      Master Guatama rose from his seat, stretched out his arms, took the boy to his bosom, and said, "Best of all Brahmins art thou, my child. Thou hast the noblest heritage of truth."

LXV

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      May be there is one house in this city where the gate opens for ever this morning at the touch of the sunrise, where the errand of the light is fulfilled.

      The flowers have opened in hedges and gardens, and may be there is one heart that has found in them this morning the gift that has been on its voyage from endless time.

LXVI

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      Listen, my heart, in his flute is the music of the smell of wild flowers, of the glistening leaves and gleaming water, of shadows resonant with bees' wings.

      The flute steals his smile from my friend's lips and spreads it over my life.

LXVII

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      You always stand alone beyond the stream of my songs.

      The waves of my tunes wash your feet but I know СКАЧАТЬ