A Quick Selection
from Rabindranath Tagore’s Gitanjali
After reading the translations of Tagore’s
compositions, WB Yeats says that there was nothing earlier that had stirred his
blood as for years. He might have revised his opinion later, and he did it, but
there is still something in the first impact the poetry had made on him, and
all over the literary world of the time. An Indian friend of his said, “I read
Rabindranath every day, to read one line of his is to forget all the troubles
of the world.” Yeats responds: “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.” In the world of the modern Rishi, “squirrels
come from the boughs and climb on to his knees and the birds alight upon his
hands.” That’s poetry. There’s everywhere “a sense of visible beauty and
meaning”. (September 1912)
Yeats continues: “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.”
And about the childlike spontaneity: “Children 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.”
That’s true, yet there has to also arrive the spiritual
adulthood.
Thou hast
made me endless
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure.
This frail vessel thou
emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over
hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart
loses its limits in joy
and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small
hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is
room to fill.
I must launch
out my boat
I must launch out my boat.
The languid hours pass by on the shore—Alas for me!
The spring has done its flowering and taken leave.
And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait
and linger.
The waves have become clamorous,
and upon the bank in
the shady lane
the yellow leaves flutter and fall.
What emptiness do you gaze upon!
Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air
with
the notes of the far-away song
floating from the other shore?
Kindle the
lamp of love with thy life
Light, oh where is the light?
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
There is the lamp but never a flicker of a flame—
is
such thy fate, my heart?
Ah, death were better by far for thee!
Misery knocks at thy door,
and her message is that thy
lord is wakeful,
and he calls thee to the love-tryst through the darkness of
night.
The sky is overcast with clouds and the rain is
ceaseless.
I know not what this is that stirs in me—
I know not
its meaning.
A moment's flash of lightning drags down a deeper gloom
on my sight,
and my heart gropes for the path to where the music of the night
calls me.
Light, oh where is the light!
Kindle it with the burning fire of desire!
It thunders and the wind rushes screaming through the
void.
The night is black as a black stone.
Let not the hours pass by in the dark.
Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.
The Journey
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird
songs;
and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;
and the wealth of gold
was scattered through the rift of the clouds
while we busily went on our way
and paid no heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played;
we went not to the
village for barter;
we spoke not a word nor smiled;
we lingered not on the way.
We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped
by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the
shade.
Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of
noon.
The shepherd boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of
the banyan tree,
and I laid myself down by the water
and stretched my tired
limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn;
they held their
heads high and hurried on;
they never looked back nor rested;
they vanished in
the distant blue haze.
They crossed many meadows and hills,
and passed through
strange, far-away countries.
All honor to you, heroic host of the interminable path!
Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise,
but found no
response in me.
I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation—
in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered green gloom slowly
spread over my heart.
I forgot for what I had traveled,
and I surrendered my
mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my
eyes,
I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile.
How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome,
and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
Like a Roaming
Cloud of Autumn
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 vapor,
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 colors, 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.
I shall weave
a Chain of Pearls
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.