44
Reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners. Spring winds to-dayare blowing in wild eddies, driving dust and dead leaves away,and with them your lessons are all lost.Do not say, father, that life is a vanity.For we have made truce with death for once, and only for a fewfragrant hours we two have been made immortal.Even if the king's army came and fiercely fell upon us we shouldsadly shake our heads and say, Brothers, you are disturbing us.If you must have this noisy game, go and clatter your armselsewhere. Since only for a few fleeting moments we have beenmade immortal.If friendly people came and flocked around us, we should humblybow to them and say, This extravagant good fortune is anembarrassment to us. Room is scarce in the infinite sky wherewe dwell. For in the springtime flowers come in crowds, andthe busy wings of bees jostle each other. Our little heaven,where dwell only we two immortals, is too absurdly narrow.
45
To the guests that must go bid God's speed and brush away alltraces of their steps.Take to your bosom with a smile what is easy and simple and near.To-day is the festival of phantoms that know not when they die.Let your laughter be but a meaningless mirth like twinkles oflight on the ripples.Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on thetip of a leaf.Strike in chords from your harp fitful momentary rhythms.
46
You left me and went on your way.I thought I should mourn for you and set your solitary image inmy heart wrought in a golden song.But ah, my evil fortune, time is short.Youth wanes year after year; the spring days are fugitive; thefrail flowers die for nothing, and the wise man warns me thatlife is but a dew-drop on the lotus leaf.Should I neglect all this to gaze after one who has turned herback on me?That would be rude and foolish, for time is short.Then, come, my rainy nights with pattering feet; smile, my goldenautumn; come, careless April, scattering your kisses abroad.You come, and you, and you also!My loves, you know we are mortals. Is it wise to break one'sheart for the one who takes her heart away? For time is short.It is sweet to sit in a corner to muse and write in rhymes thatyou are all my world.It is heroic to hug one's sorrow and determine not to beconsoled.But a fresh face peeps across my door and raises its eyes to myeyes.I cannot but wipe away my tears and change the tune of my song.For time is short.
47
If you would have it so, I will end my singing.If it sets your heart aflutter, I will take away my eyes fromyour face.If it suddenly startles you in your walk, I will step aside andtake another path.If it confuses you in your flower-weaving, I will shun yourlonely garden.If it makes the water wanton and wild, I will not row my boat byyour bank.
48
Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love! No more ofthis wine of kisses.This mist of heavy incense stifles my heart.Open the doors, make room for the morning light.I am lost in you, wrapped in the folds of your caresses.Free me from your spells, and give me back the manhood to offeryou my freed heart.
49
I hold her hands and press her to my breast.I try to fill my arms with her loveliness, to plunder her sweetsmile with kisses, to drink her dark glances with my eyes.Ah, but, where is it? Who can strain the blue from the sky?I try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me, leaving only the body inmy hands.Baffled and weary I come back.How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit maytouch?
50
Love, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you—forthe meeting that is like all-devouring death.Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have; break open mysleep and plunder my dreams. Rob me of my world.In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let usbecome one in beauty.Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except inthee, my God?
51
Then finish the last song and let us leave.Forget this night when the night is no more.Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be madecaptive.My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises mybreast.
52
Why did the lamp go out?I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is whythe lamp went out.Why did the flower fade?I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why theflower faded.Why did the stream dry up?I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why thestream dried up.Why did the harp-string break?I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is whythe harp-string is broken.
53
Why do you put me to shame with a look?I have not come as a beggar.Only for a passing hour I stood at the end of your courtyardoutside the garden hedge.Why do you put me to shame with a look?Not a rose did I gather from your garden, not a fruit did Ipluck.I humbly took my shelter under the wayside shade where everystrange traveller may stand.Not a rose did I pluck.Yes, my feet were tired, and the shower of rain come down.The winds cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight fromdefeat.My feet were tired.I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting atyour door.Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?I know not what you thought of me.The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and thisseat on the grass.It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.The day is ended.
54
Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when themarketing is over?They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps fromabove the village trees.The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across thedark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of thebamboo leaves are silent.The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in thecourtyards.Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?
55
It was mid-day when you went away.The sun was strong in the sky.I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you wentaway.Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distantfields.The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in myroom humming the news of many distant fields.The village slept in the noonday heat. The road lay deserted.In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name Ihad known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.I had forgotten to braid my hair. The languid breeze played withit upon my cheek.The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.The lazy white clouds did not move.I had forgotten to braid my hair.It was mid-day when you went away.The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.The doves cooed among the dense leaves.I was alone in my balcony when you went away.
56
I was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks ofthe household.Why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelterof our common life?Love unexpressed in sacred. It shines like gems in the gloom ofthe hidden heart. In the light of the curious day it lookspitifully dark.Ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged mytrembling love into the open place, destroying for ever theshady corner where it hid its nest.The other women are the same as ever.No one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselvesknow not their own secret.Lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work. Daily they goto the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from theriver.I hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of theshelterless, but you turn your face away.Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off myreturn, and left me stripped naked before the world with itslidless eyes staring night and day.
57
I plucked your flower, O world!I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower hadfaded, but the pain remained.More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the darknight I have not my rose, only the pain remains.
58
One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me aflower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf.I put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes.I kissed her and said, "You are blind even as the flowers are.You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift."
59
O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also ofmen; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts.Poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery;painters are giving your form ever new immortality.The sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summergardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make youmore precious.The desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth.You are one half woman and one half dream.
60
Amidst the rush and roar of life, O Beauty, carved in stone, youstand mute and still, alone and aloof.Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs:"Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride!"But your speech is shut up in stone, O Immovable Beauty!
61
Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.Let it not be a death but completeness.Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wingsover the nest.Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of thenight.Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your lastwords in silence.I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.
62
In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was minein a former life.Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat drowsing on its perch,and the pigeons were silent in their corner.She set her lamp down by the portal and stood before me.She raised her large eyes to my face and mutely asked, "Are youwell, my friend?"I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten.I thought and thought; our names would not come to my mind.Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right hand to me. Itook it and stood silent.Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.
63
Traveller, must you go?The night is still and the darkness swoons upon the forest.The lamps are bright in our balcony, the flowers all fresh, andthe youthful eyes still awake.Is the time for your parting come?Traveller, must you go?We have not bound your feet with our entreating arms.Your doors are open. Your horse stands saddled at the gate.If we have tried to bar your passage it was but with our songs.Did we ever try to hold you back it was but with our eyes.Traveller, we are helpless to keep you. We have only our tears.What quenchless fire glows in your eyes?What restless fever runs in your blood?What call from the dark urges you?What awful incantation have you read among the stars in the sky,that with a sealed secret message the night entered your heart,silent and strange?If you do not care for merry meetings, if you must have peace,weary heart, we shall put our lamps out and silence our harps.We shall sit still in the dark in the rustle of leaves, and thetired moon will shed pale rays on your window.O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heartof the mid-night?
64
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 grimashathtree spreads its hungry clutching rootsthrough 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 theearly moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, andfriendly 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 lampstare, like blind eyes, from the wall.Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboobranches 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.
65
Is that your call again?The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the armsof entreating love.Do you call me?I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also robme of my night?Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of thedark 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 yourpitiless tower?Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in yourgarden?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.
66
A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted lockstawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lipstight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burningeyes 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, forthe search had become his life,—Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for theunattainable—Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that cannever be reached—Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locksstill roamed in search of the touchstone.One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did youcome 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 withoutknowing it achieved success?It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch thechain, and to throw them away without looking to see if achange 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 losttreasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heartin the dust, like a tree uprooted.
67
Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled forall 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 thesea swelling like a dark black snake.That is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashingfoam.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 theshadowy hills.The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moonswims 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.
68
None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long. Keepthat in mind and rejoice.Our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one longjourney.One sole poet has not to sing one aged song.The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not tomourn for it for ever.Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.There must come a full pause to weave perfection into music.Life droops toward its sunset to be drowned in the goldenshadows.Love must be called from its play to drink sorrow and be borne tothe heaven of tears.Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.We hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by thepassing winds.It quickens our blood and brightens our eyes to snatch kissesthat would vanish if we delayed.Our life is eager, our desires are keen, for time tolls the bellof parting.Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.There is not time for us to clasp a thing and crush it and flingit away to the dust.The hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts.Our life is short; it yields but a few days for love.Were it for work and drudgery it would be endlessly long.Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.Beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleetingtune with our lives.Knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time tocomplete it.All is done and finished in the eternal Heaven.But earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh bydeath.Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.
69
I hunt for the golden stag.You may smile, my friends, but I pursue the vision that eludesme.I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands,because I am hunting for the golden stag.You come and buy in the market and go back to your homes ladenwith goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched meI know not when and where.I have no care in my heart; all my belongings I have left farbehind me.I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands—because I am hunting for the golden stag.
70
I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in theditch.It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play.I floated my paper boat in the ditch.Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, andrain poured in torrents.Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk myboat.Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose tospoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing overall those games in life wherein I was loser.I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, whensuddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.
71
The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on theriver-bank.I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last pennylost.But no, my brother, I have still something left. My fate has notcheated me of everything.The selling and buying are over.All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is timefor me to go home.But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll?Do not fear, I have still something left. My fate has notcheated me of everything.The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds inthe west bode no good.The hushed water waits for the wind.I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me.O ferryman, you want your fee!Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has notcheated me of everything.In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar. Alas, he looks atmy face with a timid hope!He thinks I am rich with the day's profit.Yes, brother, I have still something left. My fate has notcheated me of everything.The night grows dark and the road lonely. Fireflies gleam amongthe leaves.Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps?Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains. I willnot disappoint you!For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated meof everything.At midnight I reach home. My hands are empty.You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless andsilent.Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love.Ay, ay, my God, much remains still. My fate has not cheated meof everything.
72
With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors orwindows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in raptcontemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazybewildering lines—winged horses, flowers with human faces,women with limbs like serpents.No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the songof birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that ofincantations which I chanted.My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my sensesswooned in ecstasy.I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck thetemple, and a pain stung me through the heart.The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, likechained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they wouldfain hide themselves.I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alivewith the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned hadspread its wings and vanished.
73
Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.The toys that you make for your children are fragile.You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert youfor that?Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality,that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven isnot built, but only its sad suggestion.Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into yourlove.I will worship you with labour.I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,Mother Earth.
74
In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits onthe same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world withthe music of the clouds and forests.But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simplegrandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of themusing moon.The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles intodust.
75
At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:"This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, whohas held me so long in delusion here?"God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefullysleeping on one side of the bed.The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?"The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not.The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother.God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still heheard not.God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seekme, forsaking me?"
76
The fair was on before the temple. It had rained from the earlymorning and the day came to its end.Brighter than all the gladness of the crowd was the bright smileof a girl who bought for a farthing a whistle of palm leaf.The shrill joy of that whistle floated above all laughter andnoise.An endless throng of people came and jostled together. The roadwas muddy, the river in flood, the field under water inceaseless rain.Greater than all the troubles of the crowd was a little boy'strouble—he had not a farthing to buy a painted stick.His wistful eyes gazing at the shop made this whole meeting ofmen so pitiful.
77
The workman and his wife from the west country are busy diggingto make bricks for the kiln.Their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river;there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots andpans.Her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud-covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on thehigh bank at her bidding.She goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, theshining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with herright—she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with theweight of the household cares.One day I saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched.In the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handfulof earth, turning it round and round.Near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank.It came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud,and the child started up and screamed.His sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up.She took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, anddividing her caresses between them bound in one bond ofaffection the offspring of beast and man.
78
It was in May. The sultry noon seemed endlessly long. The dryearth gaped with thirst in the heat.When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, "Come, mydarling!"I shut my book and opened the window to look out.I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near theriver with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep inwater, calling it to its bath.I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.
79
I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognitionbetween man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ranthe simple path by which their hearts visited each other.Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced thoughtheir kinship has been long forgotten.Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up andthe beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, andthe man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know eachother through the disguise.
80
With a glance of your eyes you could plunder all the wealth ofsongs struck from poets' harps, fair woman!But for their praises you have no ear, therefore I come to praiseyou.You could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world.But it is your loved ones, unknown to fame, whom you choose toworship, therefore I worship you.The perfection of your arms would add glory to kingly splendourwith their touch.But you use them to sweep away the dust, and to make clean yourhumble home, therefore I am filled with awe.
81
Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, O Death, my Death?When the flowers droop in the evening and cattle come back totheir stalls, you stealthily come to my side and speak wordsthat I do not understand.Is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsymurmur and cold kisses, O Death, my Death?Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding?Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks?Is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not thenight be on fire with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death?Come with your conch-shells sounding, come in the sleeplessnight.Dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me.Let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighingimpatiently.Raise my veil and look at my face proudly, O Death, my Death!
82
We are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and thewaves are raving at sea.We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out,my bride and I.We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push frombehind.My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clingsto my breast.Long have I served her tenderly.I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shutout the rude light from her eyes.I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her earstill she half swooned in languor.She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand andcome out.Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, hergarland rustles over her breast.The push of death has swung her into life.We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.
83
She dwelt on the hillside by the edge of a maize-field, near thespring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadowsof ancient trees. The women came there to fill their jars, andtravellers would sit there to rest and talk. She worked anddreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream.One evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak;his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes. We asked in wonder,"Who are you?" He answered not but sat by the garrulous streamand silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt. Our heartsquaked in fear and we came back home when it was night.Next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring bythedeodartrees, they found the doors open in her hut,but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face? Theempty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out inthe corner. No one knew where she had fled to before it wasmorning—and the stranger had gone.In the month of May the sun grew strong and the snow melted, andwe sat by the spring and wept. We wondered in our mind, "Isthere a spring in the land where she has gone and where she canfill her vessel in these hot thirsty days?" And we asked eachother in dismay, "Is there a land beyond these hills where welive?"It was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and I satin her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit. Whensuddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtainsdrawn aside. "Ah, it is she who comes. How are you, my child?Are you happy? But where can you shelter under this open sky?And, alas, our spring is not here to allay your thirst.""Here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencinghills,—this is the same stream grown into a river,—the sameearth widened into a plain." "Everything is here," I sighed,"only we are not." She smiled sadly and said, "You are in myheart." I woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and therustling of thedeodarsat night.
84
Over the green and yellow rice-fields sweep the shadows of theautumn clouds followed by the swift chasing sun.The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light theyfoolishly hover and hum.The ducks in the islands of the river clamour in joy for merenothing.Let none go back home, brothers, this morning, let none go towork.Let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder space as we run.Laughter floats in the air like foam on the flood.Brothers, let us squander our morning in futile songs.
85
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of thespring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.Open your doors and look abroad.From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of thevanished flowers of an hundred years before.In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sangone spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundredyears.
INDEX OF FIRST WORDS
No.A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone 66Ah me, why did they build my house 4Ah, poet, the evening draws near 2Amidst the rush and roar of life 60An unbelieving smile flits on your eyes 40At midnight the would-be ascetic announced 75Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet 11Come to us, youth, tell us truly 25Day after day he comes and goes away 20Do not go, my love, without asking my leave 34Do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend 24Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love 48Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes 16Have mercy upon your servant, my queen 1He whispered, "My love, raise your eyes" 36I am restless 5I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood 13I hold her hands and press her to my breast 49I hunt for the golden stag 69I long to speak the deepest words 41I love you, beloved 33I often wonder where lie hidden 79I plucked your flower, O world 57I remember a day in my childhood 70I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest 15I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road 64I try to weave a wreath all the morning 39I was one among many women 56I was walking by the road, I do not know why 14If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come 12If you would have it so, I will end my singing 47In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love 62In the morning I cast my net into the sea 3In the world's audience hall 74Infinite wealth is not yours 73Is that your call again 65It was in May 78It was mid-day when you want away 55Lest I should know you too easily, you play with me 35Let your work be, bride 10Love, my heart longs day and night 50My heart, the bird of the wilderness 31My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic 38No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic 43None lives for ever, brother 68O mad, superbly drunk 42O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door 7O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God 59One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came 58Over the green and yellow rice-fields 84Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet 61Reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners 44She dwelt on the hillside 83Speak to me, my love 29Tell me if this be all true, my lover 32The day is not yet done, the fair is not over 71The fair was on before the temple 76The tame bird was in a cage 6The workman and his wife from the west country 77The yellow bird sings in their tree 17Then finish the last song and let us leave 51Though the evening comes with slow steps 67To the guests that must go bid God's speed 45Traveller, must you go 63Trust love even if it brings sorrow 27We are to play the game of death to-night 82What comes from your willing hands I take 26When I go alone at night to my love-tryst 9When she passed by me with quick steps 22When the lamp went out by my bed 8When the two sisters go to fetch water 18Where do you hurry with your basket 54Who are you, reader, reading my poems 85Why did he choose to come to my door 21Why did the lamp go out 52Why do you put me to shame with a look 53Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets 23Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears 81With a glance of your eyes you could plunder 80With days of hard travail I raised a temple 72Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck 37You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams 30You left me and went on your way 46You walked by the riverside path 19Your questioning eyes are sad 28