Gitanjali (Song offerings) - Rabindranath Tagore

Gitanjali

(Song offerings)

by Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore (1861--1941), was an Indian who received Nobel prize (1913) for Literature. This collection of songs was first published in 1913 as a collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bangla (a language of India) Poems.

This is one of my most favorite collections. I am presenting here some of the songs from the original book.

When thou commandest me to sing

it seems that my heart

would break with pride;

and I look to thy face,

and tears come to my eyes.

All that is harsh and dissonant in my life

melts into one sweet harmony

and my adoration spreads wings

like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

I know thou takest pleasure in my singing.

I know that only as a singer

I come before thy presence.

I touch by the edge

of the far-spreading wings of my song

thy feet

which I could never aspire to reach.

Drunk with the joy of singing

I forget myself

and call thee friend

who art my lord.

I know not how thou singest,

my master!

I ever listen in silent amazement.

The light of thy music illumines the world.

The life breath of thy music

runs from sky to sky.

The holy stream of thy music

breaks through all stony obstacles

and rushes on.

My heart longs

to join in thy song,

but vainly struggles for a voice.

I would speak,

but speech breaks not into song,

and I cry out baffled.

Ah, thou hast made my heart

captive in the endless meshes

of thy music, my master!

Life of my life,

I shall ever try to keep

my body pure,

knowing that thy living touch

is upon all my limbs.

I shall ever try

to keep all untruths

out from my thoughts,

knowing that thou art that truth

which has kindled

the light of reason in my mind.

I shall ever try

to drive all evils away

from my heart and

keep my love in flower,

knowing that thou hast thy seat

in the inmost shrine

of my heart.

And it shall be my endeavour

to reveal thee in my actions,

knowing it is thy power

gives me strength to act.

I ask for a moment's indulgence

to sit by thy side.

The works that I have in hand

I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face

my heart knows no rest nor respite,

and my work becomes

an endless toil

in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come

at my window

with its sighs and murmurs;

and the bees are plying their minstrelsy

at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite,

face to face with thee,

and to sing dedication of life

in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Pluck this little flower and take it,

delay not!

I fear lest it droop

and drop into the dust.

I may not find a place

in thy garland,

but honour it with a touch of pain

from thy hand and pluck it.

I fear lest the day end

before I am aware,

and the time of offering go by.

Though its colour be not deep

and its smell be faint,

use this flower in thy service

and pluck it while there is time.

My song has put off

her adornments.

She has no pride

of dress and decoration.

Ornaments would mar our union;

they would come

between thee and me;

their jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet's vanity dies

in shame before thy sight.

O master poet,

I have sat down at thy feet.

Only let me make

my life simple and straight,

like a flute of reed

for thee to fill with music.

O Fool,

try to carry thyself

upon thy own shoulders!

O beggar,

to come beg at thy own door!

Leave all thy burdens

on his hands who can bear all,

and never look behind in regret.

Thy desire at once

puts out the light

from the lamp it touches with its breath.

It is unholy

take not thy gifts

through its unclean hands.

Accept only

what is offered by sacred love.

The time that my journey takes

is long and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot

of the first gleam of light,

and pursued my voyage

through the wildernesses of worlds

leaving my track

on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course

that comes nearest to thyself,

and that training is the most intricate

which leads

to the utter simplicity of a tune.

The traveller has to knock

at every alien door

to come to his own,

and one has to wander

through all the outer worlds

to reach

the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed

far and wide

before I shut them

and said `Here art thou!'

The question and the cry

`Oh, where?'

melt into tears of a thousand streams

and deluge the world

with the flood of the assurance

`I am!'

The song that I came to sing

remains unsung to this day.

I have spent my days

in stringing and in unstringing

my instrument.

The time has not come true,

the words have not been rightly said;

only there is the agony

of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened;

only the wind is sighing by.

I have not seen his face,

nor have I listened to his voice;

only I have heard

his gentle footsteps

from the road before my house.

The livelong day has passed

in spreading his seat on the floor;

but the lamp has not been lit

and I cannot ask him

into my house.

I live in the hope

of meeting with him;

but this meeting is not yet.

My desires are many

and my cry is pitiful,

but ever didst thou save me

by hard refusals;

and this strong mercy

has been wrought into my life

through and through.

Day by day

thou art making me

worthy of the simple,

great gifts

that thou gavest to me unasked

this sky and the light,

this body and the life

and the mind

saving me

from perils of overmuch desire.

There are times

when I languidly linger

and times

when I awaken and hurry

in search of my goal;

but cruelly thou hidest

thyself from before me.

Day by day

thou art making me

worthy of thy full acceptance

by refusing me ever and anon,

saving me

from perils of weak,

uncertain desire.

I am here

to sing thee songs.

In this hall of thine

I have a corner seat.

In thy world

I have no work to do;

my useless life

can only break out

in tunes without a purpose.

When the hour strikes

for thy silent worship

at the dark temple of midnight,

command me, my master,

to stand before thee to sing.

When in the morning air

the golden harp is tuned,

honour me,

commanding my presence.

I have had my invitation

to this world's festival,

and thus my life

has been blessed.

My eyes have seen

and my ears have heard.

It was my part

at this feast

to play upon my instrument,

and I have done all I could.

Now, I ask,

has the time come at last

when I may go in

and see thy face

and offer thee

my silent salutation?

I am only waiting for love

to give myself up

at last into his hands.

That is why

it is so late

and why I have been guilty

of such omissions.

They come with their laws

and their codes

to bind me fast;

but I evade them ever,

for I am only waiting for love

to give myself up

at last into his hands.

People blame me

and call me heedless;

I doubt not

they are right in their blame.

The market day is over

and work is all done

for the busy.

Those who came

to call me in vain

have gone back in anger.

I am only waiting for love

to give myself up

at last into his hands.

If thou speakest not

I will fill my heart

with thy silence

and endure it.

I will keep still

and wait like the night

with starry vigil

and its head bent

low with patience.

The morning will surely come,

the darkness will vanish,

and thy voice pour down

in golden streams

breaking through the sky.

Then thy words

will take wings

in songs from every one

of my birds' nests,

and thy melodies

will break forth in flowers

in all my forest groves.

On the day

when the lotus bloomed,

alas,

my mind was straying,

and I knew it not.

My basket was empty

and the flower

remained unheeded.

Only now and again

a sadness fell upon me,

and I started up from my dream

and felt a sweet trace

of a strange fragrance

in the south wind.

That vague sweetness

made my heart ache

with longing

and it seemed to me

that it was

the eager breath of the summer

seeking for its completion.

I knew not then

that it was so near,

that it was mine,

and that this perfect sweetness

had blossomed

in the depth of my own heart.

16

Art thou abroad

on this stormy night

on thy journey of love,

my friend?

The sky groans like one in despair.

I have no sleep tonight.

Ever and again I open my door

and look out on the darkness,

my friend!

I can see nothing before me.

I wonder where lies thy path!
By what dim shore

of the ink-black river,

by what far edge

of the frowning forest,

through what mazy depth of gloom

art thou threading

thy course to come to me,

my friend?

If the day is done,

if birds sing no more,

if the wind has flagged tired,

then draw the veil of darkness

thick upon me,

even as thou hast wrapt

the earth with the coverlet of sleep

and tenderly closed the petals

of the drooping lotus at dusk.

From the traveller,

whose sack of provisions is empty

before the voyage is ended,

whose garment is torn and dust laden,

whose strength is exhausted,

remove shame and poverty,

and renew his life

like a flower under the cover

of thy kindly night.

In the night of weariness

let me give myself up

to sleep without struggle,

resting my trust upon thee.

Let me not force

my flagging spirit

into a poor preparation

for thy worship.

It is thou who drawest

the veil of night

upon the tired eyes

of the day

to renew its sight

in a fresher gladness of awakening.

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.

Obstinate are the trammels,

but my heart aches

when I try to break them.

Freedom is all I want,

but to hope for it

I feel ashamed.

I am certain

that priceless wealth is in thee,

and that thou art

my best friend,

but I have not

the heart to sweep away

the tinsel that fills my room

The shroud

that covers me

is a shroud of dust and death;

I hate it, yet hug it in love.

My debts are large,

my failures great,

my shame secret and heavy;

yet when I come

to ask for my good,

I quake in fear

lest my prayer be granted.

By all means

they try to hold me secure

who love me in this world.

But it is otherwise

with thy love

which is greater than theirs,

and thou keepest me free.

Lest I forget them

they never venture

to leave me alone.

But day passes by

after day and thou art not seen.

If I call not thee

in my prayers,

if I keep not thee

in my heart,

thy love for me

still waits for my love.

Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may name thee my all.

Let only that little be left

of my will whereby

I may feel thee on every side,

and come to thee in everything,

and offer to thee my love

every moment.

Let only that little be left of me

whereby I may never hide thee.

Let only that little

of my fetters be left

whereby I am bound

with thy will,

and thy purpose

is carried out in my life

and that is the fetter of thy love.

Where the mind is without fear

and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;

Where the world

has not been broken up

into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out

from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving

stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream

of reason has not lost its way

into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward

by thee into ever-widening

thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom,

my Father,

let my country awake.

This is my prayer to thee, my lord

strike, strike at the root

of penury in my heart.

Give me the strength

lightly to bear

my joys and sorrows.

Give me the strength

to make my love

fruitful in service.

Give me the strength

never to disown the poor

or bend my knees

before insolent might.

Give me the strength

to raise my mind high

above daily trifles.

And give me the strength

to surrender my strength

to thy will with love.

That I want thee, only thee

let my heart repeat

without end.

All desires

that distract me,

day and night,

are false and empty to the core.

As the night keeps

hidden in its gloom

the petition for light,

even thus in the depth

of my unconsciousness rings the cry

`I want thee, only thee'.

As the storm

still seeks its end in peace

when it strikes

against peace with all its might,

even thus my rebellion

strikes against thy love

and still its cry is

`I want thee, only thee'.

When the heart is hard

and parched up,

come upon me

with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life,

come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work

raises its din on all sides

shutting me out from beyond,

come to me,

my lord of silence,

with thy peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart

sits crouched,

shut up in a corner,

break open the door,

my king,

and come with the ceremony of a king.

When desire blinds

the mind with delusion and dust,

O thou holy one,

thou wakeful,

come with thy light and thy thunder.

27

This is my delight,

thus to wait and watch

at the wayside

where shadow chases light

and the rain comes

in the wake of the summer.

Messengers,

with tidings from unknown skies,

greet me

and speed along the road.

My heart is glad within,

and the breath

of the passing breeze is sweet.

From dawn till dusk

I sit here before my door,

and I know

that of a sudden

the happy moment

will arrive when I shall see.

In the meanwhile

I smile

and I sing all alone.

In the meanwhile

the air is filling

with the perfume of promise.

I know not

from what distant time

thou art ever coming

nearer to meet me.

Thy sun and stars

can never keep thee

hidden from me for aye.

In many a morning and eve

thy footsteps have been heard

and thy messenger has come

within my heart

and called me in secret.

I know not

only why today

my life is all astir,

and a feeling

of tremulous joy

is passing through my heart.

It is as if the time

were come

to wind up my work,

and I feel in the air

a faint smell

of thy sweet presence.

The night is nearly spent

waiting for him in vain.

I fear lest in the morning

he suddenly come to my door

when I have fallen asleep

wearied out.

Oh friends,

leave the way open to him

forbid him not.

If the sounds of his steps

does not wake me,

do not try to rouse me,

I pray.

I wish not to be called

from my sleep

by the clamorous choir of birds,

by the riot of wind

at the festival of morning light.

Let me sleep undisturbed

even if my lord comes

of a sudden to my door.

Ah, my sleep, precious sleep,

which only waits

for his touch to vanish.

Ah, my closed eyes

that would open their lids

only to the light of his smile

when he stands before me

like a dream emerging

from darkness of sleep.

Let him appear

before my sight

as the first of all lights and all forms.

The first thrill of joy

to my awakened soul

let it come from his glance.

And let my return to myself

be immediate return to him.

I thought I should ask of thee

but I dared not

the rose wreath

thou hadst on thy neck.

Thus I waited for the morning,

when thou didst depart,

to find a few fragments

on the bed.

And like a beggar

I searched in the dawn

only for a stray petal or two.

Ah me, what is it I find?

What token left of thy love?

It is no flower, no spices,

no vase of perfumed water.

It is thy mighty sword,

flashing as a flame,

heavy as a bolt of thunder.

The young light of morning

comes through the window

and spread itself upon thy bed.

The morning bird twitters and asks,

`Woman, what hast thou got?'

No, it is no flower, nor spices,

nor vase of perfumed water

it is thy dreadful sword.

I sit and muse in wonder,

what gift is this of thine.

I can find no place to hide it.

I am ashamed to wear it,

frail as I am,

and it hurts me

when press it to my bosom.

Yet shall I bear

in my heart this honour

of the burden of pain,

this gift of thine.

From now there shall be

no fear left for me

in this world,

and thou shalt be victorious

in all my strife.

Thou hast left death

for my companion

and I shall crown him

with my life.

Thy sword is with me

to cut asunder my bonds,

and there shall be

no fear left for me in the world.

From now I leave off

all petty decorations.

Lord of my heart,

no more shall there be

for me waiting and weeping in corners,

no more coyness

and sweetness of demeanour.

Thou hast given me

thy sword for adornment.

No more doll's decorations for me!

Let all the strains of joy

mingle in my last song

the joy that makes the earth

flow over

in the riotous excess of the grass,

the joy that sets the twin brothers,

life and death,

dancing over the wide world,

the joy that sweeps in

with the tempest,

shaking and waking all life with laughter,

the joy that sits still

with its tears

on the open red lotus of pain,

and the joy

that throws everything

it has upon the dust,

and knows not a word.

Yes, I know,

this is nothing but thy love,

O beloved of my heart

this golden light

that dances upon the leaves,

these idle clouds

sailing across the sky,

this passing breeze

leaving its coolness upon my forehead.

The morning light

has flooded my eyes

this is thy message to my heart.

Thy face is bent from above,

thy eyes look down on my eyes,

and my heart has touched thy feet.

Thou hast made me

known to friends