78


It was in May.  The sultry noon seemed endlessly long.  The dry
  earth gaped with thirst in the heat.
When I heard from the riverside a voice calling, "Come, my
  darling!"
I shut my book and opened the window to look out.
I saw a big buffalo with mud-stained hide, standing near the
  river with placid, patient eyes; and a youth, knee deep in
  water, calling it to its bath.
I smiled amused and felt a touch of sweetness in my heart.

79


I often wonder where lie hidden the boundaries of recognition
  between man and the beast whose heart knows no spoken language.
Through what primal paradise in a remote morning of creation ran
  the simple path by which their hearts visited each other.
Those marks of their constant tread have not been effaced though
  their kinship has been long forgotten.
Yet suddenly in some wordless music the dim memory wakes up and
  the beast gazes into the man's face with a tender trust, and
  the man looks down into its eyes with amused affection.
It seems that the two friends meet masked and vaguely know each
  other through the disguise.

80


With a glance of your eyes you could plunder all the wealth of
  songs struck from poets' harps, fair woman!
But for their praises you have no ear, therefore I come to praise
  you.
You could humble at your feet the proudest heads in the world.
But it is your loved ones, unknown to fame, whom you choose to
  worship, therefore I worship you.
The perfection of your arms would add glory to kingly splendour
  with their touch.
But you use them to sweep away the dust, and to make clean your
  humble home, therefore I am filled with awe.

81


Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears, O Death, my Death?
When the flowers droop in the evening and cattle come back to
  their stalls, you stealthily come to my side and speak words
  that I do not understand.
Is this how you must woo and win me with the opiate of drowsy
  murmur and cold kisses, O Death, my Death?

Will there be no proud ceremony for our wedding?
Will you not tie up with a wreath your tawny coiled locks?
Is there none to carry your banner before you, and will not the
  night be on fire with your red torch-lights, O Death, my Death?

Come with your conch-shells sounding, come in the sleepless
  night.
Dress me with a crimson mantle, grasp my hand and take me.
Let your chariot be ready at my door with your horses neighing
  impatiently.
Raise my veil and look at my face proudly, O Death, my Death!

82


We are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I.
The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the
  waves are raving at sea.
We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out,
  my bride and I.
We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from
  behind.
My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings
  to my breast.
Long have I served her tenderly.
I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut
  out the rude light from her eyes.
I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears
  till she half swooned in languor.
She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness.
She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her.
To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild.
My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and
  come out.
Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her
  garland rustles over her breast.
The push of death has swung her into life.
We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.

83


She dwelt on the hillside by the edge of a maize-field, near the
  spring that flows in laughing rills through the solemn shadows
  of ancient trees.  The women came there to fill their jars, and
  travellers would sit there to rest and talk.  She worked and
  dreamed daily to the tune of the bubbling stream.

One evening the stranger came down from the cloud-hidden peak;
  his locks were tangled like drowsy snakes.  We asked in wonder,
  "Who are you?"  He answered not but sat by the garrulous stream
  and silently gazed at the hut where she dwelt.  Our hearts
  quaked in fear and we came back home when it was night.

Next morning when the women came to fetch water at the spring by
  the _deodar_ trees, they found the doors open in her hut,
  but her voice was gone and where was her smiling face?  The
  empty jar lay on the floor and her lamp had burnt itself out in
  the corner.  No one knew where she had fled to before it was
  morning--and the stranger had gone.

In the month of May the sun grew strong and the snow melted, and
  we sat by the spring and wept.  We wondered in our mind, "Is
  there a spring in the land where she has gone and where she can
  fill her vessel in these hot thirsty days?"  And we asked each
  other in dismay, "Is there a land beyond these hills where we
  live?"

It was a summer night; the breeze blew from the south; and I sat
  in her deserted room where the lamp stood still unlit.  When
  suddenly from before my eyes the hills vanished like curtains
  drawn aside.  "Ah, it is she who comes.  How are you, my child?
  Are you happy?  But where can you shelter under this open sky?
  And, alas, our spring is not here to allay your thirst."

"Here is the same sky," she said, "only free from the fencing
  hills,--this is the same stream grown into a river,--the same
  earth widened into a plain."  "Everything is here," I sighed,
  "only we are not."  She smiled sadly and said, "You are in my
  heart."  I woke up and heard the babbling of the stream and the
  rustling of the _deodars_ at night.

84


Over the green and yellow rice-fields sweep the shadows of the
  autumn clouds followed by the swift chasing sun.
The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light they
  foolishly hover and hum.
The ducks in the islands of the river clamour in joy for mere
  nothing.
Let none go back home, brothers, this morning, let none go to
  work.
Let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder space as we run.
Laughter floats in the air like foam on the flood.
Brothers, let us squander our morning in futile songs.

85


Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the
  spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the
  vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang
  one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred
  years.

INDEX OF FIRST WORDS


                                                              No.
A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone                 66
Ah me, why did they build my house                             4
Ah, poet, the evening draws near                               2
Amidst the rush and roar of life                              60
An unbelieving smile flits on your eyes                       40
At midnight the would-be ascetic announced                    75

Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet               11
Come to us, youth, tell us truly                              25

Day after day he comes and goes away                          20
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave                   34
Do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend   24

Free me from the bonds of your sweetness, my love             48

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes                  16
Have mercy upon your servant, my queen                         1
He whispered, "My love, raise your eyes"                      36

I am restless                                                  5
I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood           13
I hold her hands and press her to my breast                   49
I hunt for the golden stag                                    69
I long to speak the deepest words                             41
I love you, beloved                                           33
I often wonder where lie hidden                               79
I plucked your flower, O world                                57
I remember a day in my childhood                              70
I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest         15
I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road          64
I try to weave a wreath all the morning                       39
I was one among many women                                    56
I was walking by the road, I do not know why                  14
If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come              12
If you would have it so, I will end my singing                47
In the dusky path of a dream I went to seek the love          62
In the morning I cast my net into the sea                      3
In the world's audience hall                                  74
Infinite wealth is not yours                                  73
Is that your call again                                       65
It was in May                                                 78
It was mid-day when you want away                             55

Lest I should know you too easily, you play with me           35
Let your work be, bride                                       10
Love, my heart longs day and night                            50

My heart, the bird of the wilderness                          31
My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic     38

No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic                   43
None lives for ever, brother                                  68

O mad, superbly drunk                                         42
O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door              7
O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God              59
One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came            58
Over the green and yellow rice-fields                         84

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet        61

Reverend sir, forgive this pair of sinners                    44

She dwelt on the hillside                                     83
Speak to me, my love                                          29

Tell me if this be all true, my lover                         32
The day is not yet done, the fair is not over                 71
The fair was on before the temple                             76
The tame bird was in a cage                                    6
The workman and his wife from the west country                77
The yellow bird sings in their tree                           17
Then finish the last song and let us leave                    51
Though the evening comes with slow steps                      67
To the guests that must go bid God's speed                    45
Traveller, must you go                                        63
Trust love even if it brings sorrow                           27

We are to play the game of death to-night                     82
What comes from your willing hands I take                     26
When I go alone at night to my love-tryst                      9
When she passed by me with quick steps                        22
When the lamp went out by my bed                               8
When the two sisters go to fetch water                        18
Where do you hurry with your basket                           54
Who are you, reader, reading my poems                         85
Why did he choose to come to my door                          21
Why did the lamp go out                                       52
Why do you put me to shame with a look                        53
Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets                23
Why do you whisper so faintly in my ears                      81
With a glance of your eyes you could plunder                  80
With days of hard travail I raised a temple                   72
Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck         37

You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams    30
You left me and went on your way                              46
You walked by the riverside path                              19
Your questioning eyes are sad                                 28

Introduction


A few days ago I said to a distinguished Bengali doctor of
medicine, 'I know no German, yet if a translation of a German
poet had moved me, I would go to the British Museum and find
books in English that would tell me something of his life, and of
the history of his thought.  But though these prose translations
from Rabindranath Tagore have stirred my blood as nothing has for
years, I shall not know anything of his life, and of the
movements of thought that have made them possible, if some Indian
traveller will not tell me.'  It seemed to him natural that I
should be moved, for he said, 'I read Rabindranath every day, to
read one line of his is to forget all the troubles of the world.'
I said, 'An Englishman living in London in the reign of Richard
the Second had he been shown translations from Petrarch or from
Dante, would have found no books to answer his questions, but
would have questioned some Florentine banker or Lombard merchant
as I question you.  For all I know, so abundant and simple is
this poetry, the new renaissance has been born in your country
and I shall never know of it except by hearsay.'  He answered,
'We have other poets, but none that are his equal; we call this
the epoch of Rabindranath.  No poet seems to me as famous in
Europe as he is among us.  He is as great in music as in poetry,
and his songs are sung from the west of India into Burma wherever
Bengali is spoken.  He was already famous at nineteen when he
wrote his first novel; and plays when he was but little older,
are still played in Calcutta.  I so much admire the completeness
of his life; when he was very young he wrote much of natural
objects, he would sit all day in his garden; from his twenty-fifth
year or so to his thirty-fifth perhaps, when he had a great
sorrow, he wrote the most beautiful love poetry in our language';
and then he said with deep emotion, 'words can never express what
I owed at seventeen to his love poetry.  After that his art grew
deeper, it became religious and philosophical; all the
inspiration of mankind are in his hymns.  He is the first among
our saints who has not refused to live, but has spoken out of
Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.'  I may have
changed his well-chosen words in my memory but not his thought.
'A little while ago he was to read divine service in one of our
churches--we of the Brahma Samaj use your word 'church' in
English--it was the largest in Calcutta and not only was it
crowded, but the streets were all but impassable because of the
people.'

Other Indians came to see me and their reverence for this man
sounded strange in our world, where we hide great and little
things under the same veil of obvious comedy and half-serious
depreciation.  When we were making the cathedrals had we a like
reverence for our great men?  'Every morning at three--I know,
for I have seen it'--one said to me, 'he sits immovable in
contemplation, and for two hours does not awake from his reverie
upon the nature of God.  His father, the Maha Rishi, would
sometimes sit there all through the next day; once, upon a river,
he fell into contemplation because of the beauty of the
landscape, and the rowers waited for eight hours before they
could continue their journey.'  He then told me of Mr. Tagore's
family and how for generations great men have come out of its
cradles.  'Today,' he said, 'there are Gogonendranath and
Abanindranath Tagore, who are artists; and Dwijendranath,
Rabindranath's brother, who is a great philosopher.  The
squirrels come from the boughs and climb on to his knees and the
birds alight upon his hands.'  I notice in these men's thought a
sense of visible beauty and meaning as though they held that
doctrine of Nietzsche that we must not believe in the moral or
intellectual beauty which does not sooner or later impress itself
upon physical things.  I said, 'In the East you know how to keep
a family illustrious.  The other day the curator of a museum
pointed out to me a little dark-skinned man who was arranging
their Chinese prints and said, ''That is the hereditary
connoisseur of the Mikado, he is the fourteenth of his family to
hold the post.'' 'He answered, 'When Rabindranath was a boy he
had all round him in his home literature and music.'  I thought
of the abundance, of the simplicity of the poems, and said, 'In
your country is there much propagandist writing, much criticism?
We have to do so much, especially in my own country, that our
minds gradually cease to be creative, and yet we cannot help it.
If our life was not a continual warfare, we would not have taste,
we would not know what is good, we would not find hearers and
readers.  Four-fifths of our energy is spent in the quarrel with
bad taste, whether in our own minds or in the minds of others.'
'I understand,' he replied, 'we too have our propagandist
writing.  In the villages they recite long mythological poems
adapted from the Sanskrit in the Middle Ages, and they often
insert passages telling the people that they must do their
duties.'

I have carried the manuscript of these translations about with me
for days, reading it in railway trains, or on the top of
omnibuses and in restaurants, and I have often had to close it
lest some stranger would see how much it moved me.  These lyrics--
which are in the original, my Indians tell me, full of subtlety
of rhythm, of untranslatable delicacies of colour, of metrical
invention--display in their thought a world I have dreamed of all
my live long.  The work of a supreme culture, they yet appear as
much the growth of the common soil as the grass and the rushes.
A tradition, where poetry and religion are the same thing, has
passed through the centuries, gathering from learned and
unlearned metaphor and emotion, and carried back again to the
multitude the thought of the scholar and of the noble.  If the
civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common mind
which--as one divines--runs through all, is not, as with us,
broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other,
something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have
come, in a few generations, to the beggar on the roads.  When
there was but one mind in England, Chaucer wrote his _Troilus
and Cressida_, and thought he had written to be read, or to be
read out--for our time was coming on apace--he was sung by
minstrels for a while.  Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer's
forerunners, writes music for his words, and one understands at
every moment that he is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in
his passion, so full of surprise, because he is doing something
which has never seemed strange, unnatural, or in need of defence.
These verses will not lie in little well-printed books upon
ladies' tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they
may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can
know of life, or be carried by students at the university to be
laid aside when the work of life begins, but, as the generations
pass, travellers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon
the rivers.  Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in
murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own
more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth.  At every
moment the heart of this poet flows outward to these without
derogation or condescension, for it has known that they will
understand; and it has filled itself with the circumstance of
their lives.  The traveller in the read-brown clothes that he
wears that dust may not show upon him, the girl searching in her
bed for the petals fallen from the wreath of her royal lover, the
servant or the bride awaiting the master's home-coming in the
empty house, are images of the heart turning to God.  Flowers and
rivers, the blowing of conch shells, the heavy rain of the Indian
July, or the moods of that heart in union or in separation; and a
man sitting in a boat upon a river playing lute, like one of
those figures full of mysterious meaning in a Chinese picture, is
God Himself.  A whole people, a whole civilization, immeasurably
strange to us, seems to have been taken up into this imagination;
and yet we are not moved because of its strangeness, but because
we have met our own image, as though we had walked in Rossetti's
willow wood, or heard, perhaps for the first time in literature,
our voice as in a dream.

Since the Renaissance the writing of European saints--however
familiar their metaphor and the general structure of their
thought--has ceased to hold our attention.  We know that we must
at last forsake the world, and we are accustomed in moments of
weariness or exaltation to consider a voluntary forsaking; but
how can we, who have read so much poetry, seen so many paintings,
listened to so much music, where the cry of the flesh and the cry
of the soul seems one, forsake it harshly and rudely?  What have
we in common with St.  Bernard covering his eyes that they may
not dwell upon the beauty of the lakes of Switzerland, or with
the violent rhetoric of the Book of Revelations?  We would, if we
might, find, as in this book, words full of courtesy.  'I have
got my leave.  Bid me farewell, my brothers!  I bow to you all
and take my departure.  Here I give back the keys of my door--and
I give up all claims to my house.  I only ask for last kind words
from you.  We were neighbours for long, but I received more than
I could give.  Now the day has dawned and the lamp that lit my
dark corner is out.  A summons has come and I am ready for my
journey.'  And it is our own mood, when it is furthest from 'a
Kempis or John of the Cross, that cries, 'And because I love this
life, I know I shall love death as well.'  Yet it is not only in
our thoughts of the parting that this book fathoms all.  We had
not known that we loved God, hardly it may be that we believed in
Him; yet looking backward upon our life we discover, in our
exploration of the pathways of woods, in our delight in the
lonely places of hills, in that mysterious claim that we have
made, unavailingly on the woman that we have loved, the emotion
that created this insidious sweetness.  'Entering my heart
unbidden even as one of the common crowd, unknown to me, my king,
thou didst press the signet of eternity upon many a fleeting
moment.'  This is no longer the sanctity of the cell and of the
scourge; being but a lifting up, as it were, into a greater
intensity of the mood of the painter, painting the dust and the
sunlight, and we go for a like voice to St. Francis and to
William Blake who have seemed so alien in our violent history.

We write long books where no page perhaps has any quality to make
writing a pleasure, being confident in some general design, just
as we fight and make money and fill our heads with politics--all
dull things in the doing--while Mr.  Tagore, like the Indian
civilization itself, has been content to discover the soul and
surrender himself to its spontaneity.  He often seems to contrast
life with that of those who have loved more after our fashion,
and have more seeming weight in the world, and always humbly as
though he were only sure his way is best for him: 'Men going home
glance at me and smile and fill me with shame.  I sit like a
beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me,
what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.'  At
another time, remembering how his life had once a different
shape, he will say, 'Many an hour I have 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
this sudden call to what useless inconsequence.'  An innocence, a
simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in literature makes
the birds and the leaves seem as near to him as they are near to
children, and the changes of the seasons great events as before
our thoughts had arisen between them and us.  At times I wonder
if he has it from the literature of Bengal or from religion, and
at other times, remembering the birds alighting on his brother's
hands, I find pleasure in thinking it hereditary, a mystery that
was growing through the centuries like the courtesy of a Tristan
or a Pelanore.  Indeed, when he is speaking of children, so much
a part of himself this quality seems, one is not certain that he
is not also speaking of the saints, '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 know
not 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.'

W.B.  YEATS _September 1912_