68


None lives for ever, brother, and nothing lasts for long.  Keep
  that in mind and rejoice.
Our life is not the one old burden, our path is not the one long
  journey.
One sole poet has not to sing one aged song.
The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to
  mourn for it for ever.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

There must come a full pause to weave perfection into music.
Life droops toward its sunset to be drowned in the golden
  shadows.
Love must be called from its play to drink sorrow and be borne to
  the heaven of tears.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

We hasten to gather our flowers lest they are plundered by the
  passing winds.
It quickens our blood and brightens our eyes to snatch kisses
  that would vanish if we delayed.
Our life is eager, our desires are keen, for time tolls the bell
  of parting.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

There is not time for us to clasp a thing and crush it and fling
  it away to the dust.
The hours trip rapidly away, hiding their dreams in their skirts.
Our life is short; it yields but a few days for love.
Were it for work and drudgery it would be endlessly long.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

Beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleeting
  tune with our lives.
Knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time to
  complete it.
All is done and finished in the eternal Heaven.
But earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by
  death.
Brother, keep that in mind and rejoice.

69


I hunt for the golden stag.
You may smile, my friends, but I pursue the vision that eludes
  me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands,
  because I am hunting for the golden stag.
You come and buy in the market and go back to your homes laden
  with goods, but the spell of the homeless winds has touched me
  I know not when and where.
I have no care in my heart; all my belongings I have left far
  behind me.
I run across hills and dales, I wander through nameless lands--
  because I am hunting for the golden stag.

70


I remember a day in my childhood I floated a paper boat in the
  ditch.
It was a wet day of July; I was alone and happy over my play.
I floated my paper boat in the ditch.

Suddenly the storm clouds thickened, winds came in gusts, and
  rain poured in torrents.
Rills of muddy water rushed and swelled the stream and sunk my
  boat.
Bitterly I thought in my mind that the storm came on purpose to
  spoil my happiness; all its malice was against me.

The cloudy day of July is long today, and I have been musing over
  all those games in life wherein I was loser.
I was blaming my fate for the many tricks it played on me, when
  suddenly I remembered the paper boat that sank in the ditch.

71


The day is not yet done, the fair is not over, the fair on the
  river-bank.
I had feared that my time had been squandered and my last penny
  lost.
But no, my brother, I have still something left.  My fate has not
  cheated me of everything.

The selling and buying are over.
All the dues on both sides have been gathered in, and it is time
  for me to go home.
But, gatekeeper, do you ask for your toll?
Do not fear, I have still something left.  My fate has not
  cheated me of everything.

The lull in the wind threatens storm, and the lowering clouds in
  the west bode no good.
The hushed water waits for the wind.
I hurry to cross the river before the night overtakes me.
O ferryman, you want your fee!
Yes, brother, I have still something left.  My fate has not
  cheated me of everything.

In the wayside under the tree sits the beggar.  Alas, he looks at
  my face with a timid hope!
He thinks I am rich with the day's profit.
Yes, brother, I have still something left.  My fate has not
  cheated me of everything.

The night grows dark and the road lonely.  Fireflies gleam among
  the leaves.
Who are you that follow me with stealthy silent steps?
Ah, I know, it is your desire to rob me of all my gains.  I will
  not disappoint you!
For I still have something left, and my fate has not cheated me
  of everything.

At midnight I reach home.  My hands are empty.
You are waiting with anxious eyes at my door, sleepless and
  silent.
Like a timorous bird you fly to my breast with eager love.
Ay, ay, my God, much remains still.  My fate has not cheated me
  of everything.

72


With days of hard travail I raised a temple.  It had no doors or
  windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones.
I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt
  contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar.
It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil.
The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy
  bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces,
  women with limbs like serpents.
No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song
  of birds, the murmur of leaves or hum of the busy village.
The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of
  incantations which I chanted.
My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses
  swooned in ecstasy.
I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the
  temple, and a pain stung me through the heart.

The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like
  chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light as they would
  fain hide themselves.
I looked at the image on the altar.  I saw it smiling and alive
  with the living touch of God.  The night I had imprisoned had
  spread its wings and vanished.

73


Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust!
You toil to fill the mouths of your children, but food is scarce.
The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect.
The toys that you make for your children are fragile.
You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you
  for that?
Your smile which is shadowed with pain is sweet to my eyes.
Your love which knows not fulfilment is dear to my heart.
From your breast you have fed us with life but not immortality,
  that is why your eyes are ever wakeful.
For ages you are working with colour and song, yet your heaven is
  not built, but only its sad suggestion.
Over your creations of beauty there is the mist of tears.
I will pour my songs into your mute heart, and my love into your
  love.
I will worship you with labour.
I have seen your tender face and I love your mournful dust,
  Mother Earth.

74


In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on
  the same carpet with the sunbeam and the stars of midnight.
Thus my songs share their seats in the heart of the world with
  the music of the clouds and forests.
But, you man of riches, your wealth has no part in the simple
  grandeur of the sun's glad gold and the mellow gleam of the
  musing moon.
The blessing of all-embracing sky is not shed upon it.
And when death appears, it pales and withers and crumbles into
  dust.

75


At midnight the would-be ascetic announced:
"This is the time to give up my home and seek for God.  Ah, who
  has held me so long in delusion here?"
God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped.
With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully
  sleeping on one side of the bed.
The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?"
The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not.
The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother.
God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he
  heard not.
God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek
  me, forsaking me?"

76


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.

77


The workman and his wife from the west country are busy digging
  to make bricks for the kiln.
Their little daughter goes to the landing-place by the river;
  there she has no end of scouring and scrubbing of pots and
  pans.
Her little brother, with shaven head and brown, naked, mud-
  covered limbs, follows after her and waits patiently on the
  high bank at her bidding.
She goes back home with the full pitcher poised on her head, the
  shining brass pot in her left hand, holding the child with her
  right--she the tiny servant of her mother, grave with the
  weight of the household cares.

One day I saw this naked boy sitting with legs outstretched.
In the water his sister sat rubbing a drinking-pot with a handful
  of earth, turning it round and round.
Near by a soft-haired lamb stood gazing along the bank.
It came close to where the boy sat and suddenly bleated aloud,
  and the child started up and screamed.
His sister left off cleaning her pot and ran up.
She took up her brother in one arm and the lamb in the other, and
  dividing her caresses between them bound in one bond of
  affection the offspring of beast and man.