58


One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a
  flower 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 of
  men; 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 summer
  gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you
  more 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, you
  stand 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 wings
  over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the
  night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last
  words 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 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.

Out 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, and
  the 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 the
  tired moon will shed pale rays on your window.
O traveller, what sleepless spirit has touched you from the heart
  of 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 grim _ashath_ tree spreads its hungry clutching roots
  through 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 the
  early moon, and sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and
  friendly 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 lamp
  stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo
  branches 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 arms
  of entreating love.
Do you call me?

I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob
  me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the
  dark 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 your
  pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your
  garden?

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 locks
  tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips
  tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning
  eyes 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, for
  the search had become his life,--
Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the
  unattainable--
Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can
  never be reached--
Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks
  still roamed in search of the touchstone.

One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you
  come 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 without
  knowing it achieved success?
It had grown into a habit, to pick up pebbles and touch the
  chain, and to throw them away without looking to see if a
  change 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 lost
  treasure, with his strength gone, his body bent, and his heart
  in the dust, like a tree uprooted.

67


Though the evening comes with slow steps and has signalled for
  all 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 the
  sea swelling like a dark black snake.
That is not the dance of the flowering jasmine, that is flashing
  foam.
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 the
  shadowy hills.
The stars hold their breath counting the hours, the feeble moon
  swims 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.