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.

    71

    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.

    72

    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 {it maya/} in evanescent hues of

    gold and silver， blue and green， and lets peep out through the folds

    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.

    73

    Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of

    freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

    Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught of thy wine of various

    colours and fragrance， filling this earthen vessel to the brim.

    My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and

    place them before the altar of thy temple.

    No， I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight

    and hearing and touch will bear thy delight.

    Yes， all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy， and all my

    desires ripen into fruits of love.

    74

    The day is no more， the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go

    to the stream to fill my pitcher.

    The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah， it calls

    me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by， the

    wind is up， the ripples are rampant in the river.

    I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance

    to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays

    upon his lute.

    75

    Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee

    undiminished.

    The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and

    hamlets； yet its incessant stream winds towards the washing of thy

    feet.

    The flower sweetens the air with its perfume； yet its last service is

    to offer itself to thee.

    Thy worship does not impoverish the world.

    From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them； yet

    their last meaning points to thee.

    76

    Day after day， O lord of my life， shall I stand before thee face to

    face.

    With folded hands， O lord of all worlds， shall I stand before thee

    face to face.

    Under thy great sky in solitude and silence， with humble heart shall I

    stand before thee face to face.

    In this laborious world of thine， tumultuous with toil and with

    struggle， among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to

    face.

    And when my work shall be done in this world， O King of kings， alone

    and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.

    77

    I know thee as my God and stand apart——I do not know thee as my own

    and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feet——I

    do not grasp thy hand as my friend's.

    I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine， there

    to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

    Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers， but I heed them not， I

    divide not my earnings with them， thus sharing my all with thee.

    In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men， and thus stand

    by thee. I shrink to give up my life， and thus do not plunge into the

    great waters of life.

    78

    When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first

    splendour， the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang `Oh， the

    picture of perfection！ the joy unalloyed！'

    But one cried of a sudden——`It seems that somewhere there is a break

    in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.'

    The golden string of their harp snapped， their song stopped， and they

    cried in dismay——`Yes， that lost star was the best， she was the glory

    of all heavens！'

    From that day the search is unceasing for her， and the cry goes on

    from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy！

    Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among

    themselves——`Vain is this seeking！ unbroken perfection is over all！'

    79

    If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever

    feel that I have missed thy sight——let me not forget for a moment，

    let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful

    hours.

    As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow

    full with the daily profits， let me ever feel that I have gained

    nothing——let me not forget for a moment， let me carry the pangs of

    this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    When I sit by the roadside， tired and panting， when I spread my bed

    low in the dust， let me ever feel that the long journey is still

    before me——let me not forget a moment， let me carry the pangs of this

    sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound and the

    laughter there is loud， let me ever feel that I have not invited thee

    to my house——let me not forget for a moment， let me carry the pangs

    of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

    80

    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 vapour， 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 colours， 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.

    81

    On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never

    lost， my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own

    hands.

    Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts，

    buds into blossoms， and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.

    I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had

    ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders

    of flowers.

    82

    Time is endless in thy hands， my lord. There is none to count thy

    minutes.

    Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou

    knowest how to wait.

    Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

    We have no time to lose， and having no time we must scramble for a

    chances. We are too poor to be late.

    And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous

    man who claims it， and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the

    last.

    At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut； but I

    find that yet there is time.

    83

    Mother， I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of

    sorrow.

    The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet， but

    mine will hang upon thy breast.

    Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to

    withhold them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own， and when I

    bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.

    84

    It is the pang of separation that spreads throughout the world and

    gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

    It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from

    star to star and becomes lyric among rustling leaves in rainy darkness

    of July.

    It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires，

    into sufferings and joy in human homes； and this it is that ever melts

    and flows in songs through my poet's heart.

    85

    When the warriors came out first from their master's hall， where had

    they hid their power？ Where were their armour and their arms？

    They looked poor and helpless， and the arrows were showered upon them

    on the day they came out from their master's hall.

    When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did

    they hide their power？

    They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow； peace

    was on their foreheads， and they had left the fruits of their life

    behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall.

    86

    Death， thy servant， is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and

    brought thy call to my home.

    The night is dark and my heart is fearful——yet I will take up the

    lamp， open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who

    stands at my door.

    I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.

    He will go back with his errand done， leaving a dark shadow on my

    morning； and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as

    my last offering to thee.

    87

    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.

    88

    Deity of the ruined temple！ The broken strings of Vina sing no more

    your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of

    worship. The air is still and silent about you.

    In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings

    the tidings of flowers——the flowers that for your worship are offered

    no more.

    Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused.

    In the eventide， when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust，

    he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.

    Many a festival day comes to you in silence， deity of the ruined

    temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.

    Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the

    holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.

    Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless

    neglect.

    89

    No more noisy， loud words from me——such is my master's will.

    Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried

    on in murmurings of a song.

    Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there.

    But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day， in the thick of

    work.

    Let then the flowers come out in my garden， though it is not their

    time； and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

    Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil，

    but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my

    heart on to him； and I know not why is this sudden call to what

    useless inconsequence！