The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

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       dropped from day's caravan.

      Spring scatters the petals of flowers

       that are not for the fruits of the future,

       but for the moment's whim.

      Joy freed from the bond of earth's slumber

       rushes into numberless leaves,

       and dances in the air for a day.

      My words that are slight

       my lightly dance upon time's waves

       when my works heavy with import have gone down.

      Mind's underground moths

       grow filmy wings

       and take a farewell flight

       in the sunset sky.

      The butterfly counts not months but moments,

       and has time enough.

      My thoughts, like sparks, ride on winged surprises,

       carrying a single laughter.

      The tree gazes in love at its own beautiful shadow

       which yet it never can grasp.

      Let my love, like sunlight, surround you

       and yet give you illumined freedom.

      Days are coloured bubbles

       that float upon the surface of fathomless night.

      My offerings are too timid to claim your remembrance,

       and therefore you may remember them.

      Leave out my name from the gift

       if it be a burden,

       but keep my song.

      April, like a child,

       writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers,

       wipes them away and forgets.

      Memory, the priestess,

       kills the present

       and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.

      From the solemn gloom of the temple

       children run out to sit in the dust,

       God watches them play

       and forgets the priest.

      My mind starts up at some flash

       on the flow of its thoughts

       like a brook at a sudden liquid note of its own

       that is never repeated.

      In the mountain, stillness surges up

       to explore its own height;

       in the lake, movement stands still

       to contemplate its own depth.

      The departing night's one kiss

       on the closed eyes of morning

       glows in the star of dawn.

      Maiden, thy beauty is like a fruit

       which is yet to mature,

       tense with an unyielding secret.

      Sorrow that has lost its memory

       is like the dumb dark hours

       that have no bird songs

       but only the cricket's chirp.

      Bigotry tries to keep truth safe in its hand

       with a grip that kills it.

      Wishing to hearten a timid lamp

       great night lights all her stars.

      Though he holds in his arms the earth-bride,

       the sky is ever immensely away.

      God seeks comrades and claims love,

       the Devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.

      The soil in return for her service

       keeps the tree tied to her,

       the sky asks nothing and leaves it free.

      Jewel-like immortal

       does not boast of its length of years

       but of the scintillating point of its moment.

      The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time,

       unobscured by the dust of history.

      A light laughter in the steps of creation

       carries it swiftly across time.

      One who was distant came near to me in the morning,

       and still nearer when taken away by night.

      White and pink oleanders meet

       and make merry in different dialects.

      When peace is active sweeping its dirt, it is storm.

      The lake lies low by the hill,

       a tearful entreaty of love

       at the foot of the inflexible.

      There smiles the Divine Child

       among his playthings of unmeaning clouds

       and ephemeral lights and shadows.

      The breeze whispers to the lotus,

       "What is thy secret?"

       "It is myself," says the lotus,

       "Steal it and I disappear!"

      The freedom of the storm and the bondage of the stem

       join hands in the dance of swaying branches.

      The jasmine's lisping of love to the sun is her flowers.

      The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom

       and yet to keep it for himself.

      Gods, tired of their paradise, envy man.

      Clouds are hills in vapour,

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