On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances. They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.  They not know how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, While children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets. The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, Even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked   in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

	The sleep that flirts on baby's eyes--- does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two timid buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--- does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the  edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--- The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
	The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--- does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love--- the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs.

	When I bring to you coloured toys, my child, I understand  why there is such a play of colours on clouds, on water and why flowers are painted in tints--- when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voice  to the heart of the listening earth--- when I sing to make you dance.
	When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands I know why there is honey in the cup of flowers and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice--- when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,  I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight that is which the summer breeze brings to my body--- when I kiss you to make you smile.

On the slope of the desolate river among tall grasses I asked her,
`Maiden, where do you go shading your lamp with your mantle?
My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light!'
She raised her dark eyes for a moment and looked at my face through the dusk.
`I have come to the river,' she said,
`To float my lamp on the stream when the daylight wanes in the west.'
I stood alone among tall grasses
And watched the timid flame of her lamp uselessly drifting in the tide.

In the silence of gathering night I asked her,
`Maiden, your lights are all lit---then where do you go with your lamp?
My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light!'
She raised her dark eyes on my face and stood for a moment doubtful.
`I have come,' she said at last, `to dedicate my lamp to the sky'.
I stood and watched her light uselessly burning in the void.

In the moonless gloom of midnight I ask her,
`Maiden, what is your quest, holding the lamp near your heart?
My house is all dark and lonesome---lend me your light.'
She stopped for a minute and thought and gazed at my face in the dark.
`I have brought my light,' she said, `to join the carnival of lamps.'
I stood and watched her little lamp uselessly lost among lights.

Words have wooed yet failed to win her;
persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart,
and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams,
she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her
and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,
And she remained in her loneliness waiting for thy recognition.

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day
   runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth
   in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.
I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.
Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm?
   to be tossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy?
All things rush on, they stop not, they look not behind,
   no power can hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid music, seasons come dancing and pass away---
   colours, tunes, and perfumes pour in endless cascades  in the abounding joy that scatters and gives up and dies every moment.
 

That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,
   thus casting coloured shadows on thy radiance---such is thy Maya.
Thou settest a barrier in thine own Being and then
   callest thy severed self in myriad notes.
This thy self-separation has taken body in me.
The poignant song is echoed through all the sky
   in many-coloured tears and smiles, alarms and hopes;
   waves rise up and sink again, dreams break and form.
In me is thy own defeat of self.
This screen that thou hast raised is painted with
   innumerable figures with the brush of the night and the day.
Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,
   casting away all barren lines of straightness.
The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky.
With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant,
   and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me.
 
 
 

He it is, the innermost one, who awakens my being with His deep hidden touches. He it is who puts His enchantment upon these eyes and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart in varied cadence of pleasure and pain. He it is who weaves the web of this  maya in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and greem, and lets peep out through the folds of  His feet,  at whose touch I forget myself.  Days come and ages pass, and it is ever He  who moves my heart in many a name, in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.