Poetry by Rabindra Nath Tagore

Do accept me this time... (from Gitabitan)

Do accept me this time, Lord, do. Do not turn away, please.
Steal my heart and stay. I don't wish to repeat those day devoid of you, Let them finish in dust.
Let my life now open up in light, forever awake and alert.

I do not know what deluded me, and what promises lured me, that i moved around here and there on roads, amidst meadows.
Now bring your face close to my heart and deliver a message, your own.

Many faults, many a deception still lurk secretly in my heart. Do not turn me away any more for that.
Lord purify them in your fire.

I AM RESTLESS (from The Gardener)

I am restless. I am athirst for far-away things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore

I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land. Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own. O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not the winged horse.

I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart. In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in the house where I dwell alone

Benediction

Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.

He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he choose you from the crowd, came to your door, and grasped your hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.

Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves underneath grow threatening,
yet the breath from above may come and fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and bless him.

From The Crescent Moon

You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don't understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant?
What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses? Has he forgotten them all?

Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books. If I ever go to play in father's room, you come and call me,"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that father's at his work?" What is the fun of always writing and writing?

When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does, -
a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i, - why do you get cross with me then, mother? You never say a word when father writes.

When my father wates heaps and heaps of papers, mother, you don't seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?

IN THE DUSKY PATH OF A DREAM (from The Gardener)

In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love who was mine in 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 you well, 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. I took it and stood silent.Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze and died.

An awakening (abridged from Manasi, 1890)

I know now that the night's dream has come to an end.
From the garland the flowers have gone, what remains is but the thread, No longer is there the secret look, the stealthy advance, the play at turning back.
The eyes are there, not in them love's obsession. The arms twined round mine are now only a bond.

The smile which used to play round your lips is no longer seen. No longer is there the attempt at hide and seek.
The voice which used to send your heart into a flutter, and through your body a wave of pleasure no longer does.
A song no longer brings tears to the eyes, which bashfulness tries to hide.

The flute played, I gave in, and that was the end. What remains is a shackle round my feet-a noose to hang with.
The abundant night is now past and its memory can only bring shame to my heart. Happiness is gone, not its pretence.
What is left behind is but an attempt at caress without any sense.

from THE GARDENER

When she passed by me with quick steps, the end of her skirt touched me.
From the unknown island of a heart came a sudden warm breath of spring. A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me
and vanished in a moment, like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze.
It fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body and whisper of her heart.