Roaming Cloud

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn
uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious!
Thy touch has not yet melted my vapor,
making me one with thy light,
and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play,
then take this fleeting emptiness of mine,
paint it with colors, gild it with gold,
float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night,
I shall melt and vanish away in the dark,
or it may be in a smile of the white morning,
in a coolness of purity transparent.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Twelve O'Clock

Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons now. I have been at my
book all the morning.
You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't any later;
can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve
o'clock?
I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of
that rice-field, and the old fisher-woman is gathering herbs for
her supper by the side of the pond.
I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing
darker under the madar tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny
black.
If twelve o'clock can come in the night, why can't the night
come when it is twelve o'clock?

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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My Dependence

I like to be dependent, and so for ever
with warmth and care of my mother
my father , to love, kiss and embrace
wear life happily in all their grace.

I like to be dependent, and so for ever
on my kith and kin, for they all shower
harsh and warm advices, complaints
full wondering ,true and info giants.

I like to be dependent, and so for ever
for my friends, chat and want me near
with domestic,family and romantic tips
colleagues as well , guide me work at risks.

I like to be dependent, and so for ever
for my neighbours too, envy at times
when at my rise of fortune like to hear
my daily steps , easy and odd things too.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Gardener LXXIX: I Often Wonder

I often wonder where lie hidden
the boundaries of recognition between
man and the beast whose heart knows
no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a
remote morning of creation ran the
simple path by which their hearts
visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread
have not been effaced though their
kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless
music the dim memory wakes up
and the beast gazes into the man's
face with a tender trust, and the
man looks down into its eyes with
amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet
masked, and vaguely know each other
through the disguise.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Gardener XXIX: Speak To Me My Love

Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.
The night is dark. The stars are
lost in clouds. The wind is sighing
through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue
cloak will cling round me like night. I
will clasp your head to my bosom; and
there in the sweet loneliness murmur
on your heart. I will shut my eyes
and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will
sit still and silent. Only the trees will
whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will
dawn. We shall look at each other's
eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in
words what you sang.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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The Gardener LXXVI: The Fair Was On

The fair was on before the temple.
It had rained from the early morning
and the day came to its end.
Brighter than all the gladness of
the crowd was the bright smile of
a girl who bought for a farthing a
whistle of palm leaf.
The shrill joy of that whistle floated
above all laughter and noise.
An endless throng of people came
and jostled together. The road was
muddy, the river in flood, the field
under water in ceaseless rain.
Greater than all the troubles of
the crowd was a little boy's trouble--
he had not a farthing to buy a painted
stick.
His wistful eyes gazing at the shop
made this whole meeting of men so
pitiful.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Song Unsung

The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.

The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;
but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.

I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Baby's World

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.

poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Brink Of Eternity

In desperate hope I go and search for her
in all the corners of my room;
I find her not.

My house is small
and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
and seeking her I have to come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.

Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.

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poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Last Curtain

I know that the day will come
when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.

Yet stars will watch at night,
and morning rise as before,
and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.

When I think of this end of my moments,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare is its meanest of lives.

Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got
---let them pass.
Let me but truly possess

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poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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