Every year since 1901 the Nobel Prizes have been given for achievements in physics, chemistry, physiology or medicine, literature and for peace. The Nobel Prize is an international award administered by the Nobel Foundation in Stockholm, Sweden. In 1968, the Bank of Sweden instituted the Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel, founder of the Nobel Prize. Each prize consists of a medal, personal diploma, and prize amount.
More infoat: http://nobelprize.org
Born: May 7, 1861
Died: August 7, 1941
Achievements: Rabindranath Tagore became the first Asian to became Nobel laureate when he won Nobel Prize for his collection of poems, Gitanjali, in 1913; awarded knighthood by the British King George V; established Viswabharati University; two songs from his Rabindrasangit canon are now the national anthems of India and Bangladesh
Rabindranath Tagore was an icon of Indian culture. He was a poet, philosopher, musician, writer, and educationist. Rabindranath Tagore became the first Asian to became Nobel laureate when he won Nobel Prize for his collection of poems, Gitanjali, in 1913. He was popularly called as Gurudev and his songs were popularly known as Rabindrasangeet. Two songs from his Rabindrasangit canon are now the national anthems of India and Bangladesh: the Jana Gana Mana and the Amar Shonar Bangla.
Rabindranath Tagore was born on May 7, 1861 in a wealthy Brahmin family in Calcutta. He was the ninth son of Debendranath and Sarada Devi. His grandfather Dwarkanath Tagore was a rich landlord and social reformer. Rabindra Nath Tagore had his initial education in Oriental Seminary School. But he did not like the conventional education and started studying at home under several teachers. After undergoing his upanayan (coming-of-age) rite at the age of eleven, Tagore and his father left Calcutta in 1873 to tour India for several months, visiting his father's Santiniketan estate and Amritsar before reaching the Himalayan hill station of Dalhousie. There, Tagore read biographies, studied history, astronomy, modern science, and Sanskrit, and examined the classical poetry of Kalidasa.
In 1874, Tagore's poem Abhilaash (Desire) was published anonymously in a magazine called Tattobodhini. Tagore's mother Sarada Devi expired in 1875. Rabindranath's first book of poems, Kabi Kahini ( tale of a poet ) was published in 1878. In the same year Tagore sailed to England with his elder brother Satyandranath to study law. But he returned to India in 1880 and started his career as poet and writer. In 1883, Rabindranath Tagore married Mrinalini Devi Raichaudhuri, with whom he had two sons and three daughters.
In 1884, Tagore wrote a collection of poems Kori-o-Kamal (Sharp and Flats). He also wrote dramas - Raja-o-Rani ( King and Queen) and Visarjan (Sacrifice). In 1890, Rabindranath Tagore moved to Shilaidaha (now in Bangladesh) to look after the family estate. Between 1893 and 1900 Tagore wrote seven volumes of poetry, which included Sonar Tari (The Golden Boat) and Khanika. In 1901, Rabindranath Tagore became the editor of the magazine Bangadarshan. He Established Bolpur Bramhacharyaashram at Shantiniketan, a school based on the pattern of old Indian Ashrama. In 1902, his wife Mrinalini died. Tagore composed Smaran ( In Memoriam ), a collection of poems, dedicated to his wife.
In 1905, Lord Curzon decided to divide Bengal into two parts. Rabindranath Tagore strongly protested against this decision. Tagore wrote a number of national songs and attended protest meetings. He introduced the Rakhibandhan ceremony , symbolizing the underlying unity of undivided Bengal.
In 1909, Rabindranath Tagore started writing Gitanjali. In 1912, Tagore went to Europe for the second time. On the journey to London he translated some of his poems/songs from Gitanjali to English. He met William Rothenstein, a noted British painter, in London. Rothenstien was impressed by the poems, made copies and gave to Yeats and other English poets. Yeats was enthralled. He later wrote the introduction to Gitanjali when it was published in September 1912 in a limited edition by the India Society in London. Rabindranath Tagore was awarded Nobel Prize for Literature in 1913 for Gitanjali. In 1915 he was knighted by the British King George V.
In 1919, following the Jallianwala Bagh massacre, Tagore renounced his knighthood. He was a supporter of Gandhiji but he stayed out of politics. He was opposed to nationalism and militarism as a matter of principle, and instead promoted spiritual values and the creation of a new world culture founded in multi-culturalism, diversity and tolerance. Unable to gain ideological support to his views, he retired into relative solitude. Between the years 1916 and 1934 he traveled widely.
1n 1921, Rabindranath Tagore established Viswabharati University. He gave all his money from Nobel Prize and royalty money from his books to this University. Tagore was not only a creative genius, he was quite knowledgeable of Western culture, especially Western poetry and science too. Tagore had a good grasp of modern - post-Newtonian - physics, and was well able to hold his own in a debate with Einstein in 1930 on the newly emerging principles of quantum mechanics and chaos. His meetings and tape recorded conversations with his contemporaries such Albert Einstein and H.G. Wells, epitomize his brilliance.
In 1940 Oxford University arranged a special ceremony in Santiniketan and awarded Rabindranath Tagore with Doctorate Of Literature. Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore passed away on August 7, 1941 in his ancestral home in Calcutta.
Source: http://www.iloveindia.com/indian-heroes/rabindranath-tagore.html
It is not known to any certain degree when and where Rabindranath Tagore published the Bengali version of the poem known as "60." This title is derived from the poem's numerical placement in his English translation of Gitanjali, which was first published in England in 1912. This English volume, although it shares the name of one of Tagore's earlier volumes of Bengali verse, is actually comprised of poems from several of Tagore's previous volumes of Bengali poetry. As a result, scholars have been unable to trace the origins of most of the poems in the English Gitanjali . In addition, Tagore heavily altered the structure and, in some cases, the content of the poems when he translated them into English. Because of this, it is appropriate to use the year 1912 for the purpose of dating the poem's creation.
The English Gitanjali was a landmark event that happened almost by accident. Tagore translated a group of his poems into English to pass the time while he was sick, then showed his translations to some influential English writers and editors, including William Rothenstein and William Butler Yeats—both of whom helped to publish and promote the English Gitanjali . A year later, Tagore made history by becoming the first Asian to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. Westerners were initially enamored of Tagore's poems for their peaceful, mystical qualities, which contrasted sharply with a world on the verge of a harsh, global war. "60," which features children playing on a universal seashore, contrasts metaphysical and religious ideas with the human world to demonstrate the blissful ignorance of children, who do not know about the adult world. The poem also emphasizes the idea of unity, underscoring Tagore's lifelong goal to unite Eastern and Western traditions—a challenge at the time in British-controlled India. Generally speaking, Bengali readers know Tagore for his body of work, while many Westerners still associate Tagore only with Gitanjali .
Source: http://www.bookrags.com/studyguide-60/
IN one salutation to thee, my God, let
all my senses spread out and touch
this world at thy feet.
Like a rain-cloud of July hung low
with its burden of unshed showers let
all my mind bend down at thy door in
one salutation to thee.
Let all my songs gather together
their diverse strains into a single
current and flow to a sea of silence in
one salutation to thee.
Like a flock of homesick cranes
flying night and day back to their
mountain nests let all my life take its
voyage to its eternal home in one
salutation to thee.
I BOASTED among men that I had
known you. 'They see your pictures in
all works of mine. They come and ask
me. "Who is he?" I know not how to
answer them. I say. "Indeed. I cannot
tell." They blame me and they go away
in scorn. And you sit. there smiling.
I put my tales of you into lasting
songs. The secret gushes out from my
heart. They come and ask me, "Tell
me all your meanings." I know not
how to answer them. I say. "Ah. who
knows what they mean!" They smile
and go away in utter scorn. And you
sit there smiling.
EVER in my life have I sought thee
with my songs. It was they who led
me from door to door, and with them
have I felt about me, searching and
touching my world.
It was my songs that taught me all
the lessons I ever learnt; they showed
me secret paths, they brought before
my sight many a star on the horizon of
my heart.
They guided me all the day long to
the mysteries of the country of
pleasure and pain, and, at last, to
what palace gate have they brought
me in the evening at the end of my
journey ?
I DIVE down into the depth of the
ocean of forms, hoping to gain the
perfect pearl of the formless.
No more sailing from harbour to
harbour with this my weather-beaten
boat. The days are long passed when
my sport was to be tossed on waves.
And now I am eager to die into the
deathless.
Into the audience hall by the
fathomless abyss where swells up the
music of toneless strings I shall take
this harp of my life.
I shall tune it to the notes of for
ever, and, when it has sobbed out its
last utterance, lay down my silent
harp at the feet of the silent.
WHEN I give up the helm I know that
the time has come for thee to take it.
What there is to do will be instantly
done. Vain is this struggle.
Then take away your hands and
silently put up with your defeat, my
heart, and think it your good fortune
to sit perfectly still where you are
placed.
These my lamps are blown out at
every little puff of wind, and trying to
light them I fog get all else again and
again.
But I shall be wise this time and
wait in the dark, spreading my mat on
the floor; and whenever it is thy
pleasure, my lord, come silently and
take thy seat here.
I WILL deck thee with trophies,
garlands of my defeat. It is never in
my power to escape unconquered.
I surely know my pride will go to
the wall, my life will burst its bonds in
exceeding pain, and my empty heart
will sob out- in music like a hollow
reed, and the stone will melt in tears.
I surely know the hundred petals
of a lotus will not remain closed for
ever and the secret recess of its
honey will be bared.
From the blue sky an eye shall gaze
upon me and summon me in silence.
Nothing will be left for me, nothing
whatever, and utter death shall I
receive at thy feet.
WHEN my play was with thee I never
questioned who thou Overt. I knew nor
shyness nor fear, my life was
boisterous.
In the early morning thou wouldst
call me from my sleep like my own
comrade and lead me running from
glade to glade.
On those days I never cared to
know the meaning of songs thou
sangest to me. Only my voice took up
the tunes, and my heart danced in
their cadence.
Now, when the playtime is over,
what is this sudden sight that is come
upon me? The world with eyes bent
upon thy feet stands in awe with all
its silent stars.
WHEN I go from hence let this be my
parting word. that what I have seen is
unsurpassable.
I have tasted of the hidden honey
of this lotus that expands on the
ocean of light, and thus am I blessed-
¬let this be my parting word.
In this playhouse of infinite forms
I have had my play and here have I
caught sight of him that is formless.
My whole body and my limbs have
thrilled with his touch who is beyond
touch, and if the end comes here, let
it come-let this be my parting word.
I was not aware of the moment when I
first crossed the threshold of this life.
What was the power that made me .
open out into this vast mystery like a
bud in the forest at midnight!
When in the morning I looked
upon the light I felt in a moment that
I was no stranger in this world. that
the inscrutable without name and
form had taken me in its arms in the
form of my own mother.
Even so, in death the same
unknown will appear as ever known
to me. And because I love this life. I
know I shall love death as well.
The child cries out when from the
right breast the mother takes it away,
in the very next moment to find in
the left one its consolation.
AT this time of my parting, wish me
good luck, my friends! The sky is
flushed with the dawn and my path
lies beautiful.
Ask not what I have with me to
take there. I start on my journey with
empty hands and expectant heart.
I shall put on my wedding garland.
Mine is not the red-brown dress of
the traveller, and though there are
dangers on the way I have no fear in
my mind.
The evening star will come out
when my voyage is done and the
plaintive notes of the twilight
melodies be struck up from the King's
gateway.
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 tip 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 clay has dawned and the lamp that
lit my dark corner is out. A summons
has come and I am ready for my
journey.
I KNOW that the day will come when
my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night, and
morning rise as before, and hours
heave like sea waves casting up
pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my
moments, the barrier of the moments
breaks and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat, rare is its
meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got- let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things
that. I ever spurned and overlooked.
OTHOU the last fulfilment of life. Death,
my death, come and whisper to me!
Day after day have I kept watch for
thee; for thee have I borne the joys
and pangs of life.
All that I am, that I have, that I
hope and all my love have ever flowed
towards thee in depth of secrecy. One
final glance from thine eyes and my
life will be ever thine own.
The flowers have been woven and
the garland is ready for the
bridegroom. After the wedding the
bride shall leave her home and meet
her lord alone in the solitude of night.
ON the day when death will knock at
thy door what wilt thou offer to him?
Oh, I will set before my guest the
full vessel of my life- I will never let
him go with empty hands.
All the sweet vintage of all my
autumn days and summer nights, all
the earnings and gleanings of my busy
life will I place before him at the
close of my days when death will
knock at my door.
No more noisy, loud words from me
¬such is my master's will. Henceforth I
deal in whispers. The speech of my
heart will be carried on in
murmurings of a song.
Men hasten to the King's market.
All the buyers and sellers are there.
But I have my untimely leave in the
middle of the day, in the thick of
work.
Let then the flowers come out in
my garden, though it is not their
time; and let the midday bees strike
up their lazy hum.
Full many an hour have I 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 is this
sudden call to what useless
inconsequence!
DEITY of the ruined temple! The
broken strings of Vina sing no more
your praise. The bells in the evening
proclaim not your time of worship.
The air is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling comes
the vagrant spring breeze. It brings
the tidings of flowers-the flowers
that for your worship are offered no
more.
Your worshipper of old wanders
ever longing for favour still refused. In
the eventide, when fires and shadows
mingle with the gloom of dust, he
wearily comes back to the ruined
temple with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in
silence, deity of the ruined temple.
Many a night of worship goes away
with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by
masters of cunning art and carried to
the holy stream of oblivion when their
time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined
temple remains unwroshipped in
deathless neglect.
IN desperate hope I go and search for
her in all the corners of my room; I
find her not.
My house is small and what once
has gone from it can never be
regained.
But infinite is thy mansion, my
lord, and seeking her I have come to
thy door.
I stand under the golden canopy of
thine evening sky and I lift, my eager
eyes to thy face.
I have come to the brink of
eternity from which nothing can
vanish- no hope, no happiness, no
vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that
ocean, plunge it into the deepest
fullness. Let me for once feel that lost
sweet touch in the allness of the
universe.
DEATH, thy servant, is at my door. He
has crossed the unknown sea and
brought thy call to my home.
The night is dark and my heart is
fearful-yet I will take up the lamp.
open my gates and bow to him my
welcome. It is thy messenger who
stands at my door.
I will worship him with folded
hands, and with tears. I will worship
him placing at his feet. the treasure of
my heart.
He will go back with his errand
done, leaving a dark shadow on my
morning and in my desolate home
only my forlorn self will remain as my
last offering to thee.
WHEN the warriors came out first from
their master's hall, where had they
hid their power ? Where were their
armour and their arms ?
They looked poor and helpless,
and the arrows were showered upon
them on the day they came out from
their master's hall.
When the warriors marched back
again to their master's hall where did
they hide their power ?
They had dropped the sword and
dropped the bow and the arrow;
peace was on their foreheads, and
they had left the fruits of their life
behind them on the day they marched
back again to their master's hall.
IT is the pang of separation that
spreads throughout the world and
gives birth to shapes innumerable in
the infinite sky.
IT is this sorrow of separation that
gazes in silence all night from star to
star and becomes lyric among rustling
leaves in rainy darkness of July.
It is this overspreading pain that.
deepens into loves and desires, into
sufferings and joys in human homes
and this it is that ever melts and flows
in songs through my poet's heart.
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.
TIME is endless in thy hands, my lord.
There is none to count thy minutes.
Days and nights pass and ages bloom
and fade like flowers. Thou knowest
how to wait.
Thy centuries follow each other
perfecting a small wild flower.
We have no time to lose, and
having no time we must scramble for
our chances. We are too poor to be
late.
And thus it is that time goes by
while I give it to every querulous man
who claims it, and thine altar is
empty of all offerings to the last.
At the end of the day I hasten in
fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find
that yet there is time.
ON many an idle day have I grieved
over lost time. But it is never lost, my
lord. Thou hast taken every moment
of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou
art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening
flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my
idle bed and imagined all work had
ceased.
In the morning I woke up and
found my garden full with wonders of
flowers.
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 vapour, 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
colours, 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.
IF it is not my portion to meet thee in
this my life then let me ever feel that
I have missed thy sight- let me not
forget for a moment, let me carry the
pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
As my days pass in the crowded
market of this world and my hands
grow full with the daily profits, let me
ever feel that I have gained nothing
¬let me not forget for a moment, let
me carry the pangs of this sorrow in
my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
When I sit by the roadside, tired
and panting, when I spread my bed
low in the dust, let me ever feel that
the long journey is still before me¬
let me not forget for a moment, let
me carry the pangs of this sorrow in
my dreams and in my wakeful hours.
When my rooms have been decked
out and the flutes sound and the
laughter there is loud, let me ever
feel that I have not invited thee to my
house- let me not forget a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow
in my dreams and in my wakeful
hours.
WHFN the creation was new and all
the stars shone in their first
splendour, the gods held their
assembly in the sky and sang "Oh, the
picture of perfection! the joy
unalloyed !"
But one cried of a sudden- "It
seems that somewhere there is a
break in the chain -of light and one of
the stars has been lost."
The golden string of their harp
snapped, their song stopped, and
they cried in dismay- 'Yes, that lost
star was the best, she was the glory of
all heavens!"
From that day the search is
unceasing for her, and the cry goes on
from one to the other that in her the
world has lost its one joy !
Only in the deepest silence of
night the stars smile and whisper
among themselves- "Vain is this
seeking ! Unbroken perfection is over
all !"
I KNOW thee as my God and stand
apart- I do not know thee as my own
and come closer. I know thee as my
father and bow before thy feet- I do
not grasp thy hand as my friend's.
I stand not where thou comest
down and ownest thyself as mine,
there to clasp thee to my heart and
take thee as my comrade.
Thou art the Brother amongst my
brothers, but I heed them not, I
divide not my earnings with them,
thus sharing my all with thee.
In pleasure and in pain I stand not
by the side of men, and thus stand by
thee. I shrink to give up my life, and
thus do not plunge into the great
waters of life.
DAY after day, 0 lord of my life, shall I
stand before thee face to face ? With
folded hands, 0 lord of all worlds,
shall I stand before thee face to
face ?
Uunder thy great sky in solitude
and silence, with humble heart shall I
stand before thee face to face ?
In this laborious world of thine,
tumultuous with toil and with
struggle, among hurrying crowds shall
I stand before thee face to face ?
And when my work shall be done
in this world, 0 King of kings, alone
and speechless shall I stand before
thee face to face ?
THY gifts to us mortals fulfil all our
needs and yet run back to thee
undiminished.
The river has its everyday work to
do and hastens through fields and
hamlets; yet its incessant stream
winds towards the washing of thy
feet.
The flower sweetens the air with
its perfume; yet its last service is to
offer itself to thee.
Thy worship does not impoverish
the world.
From the words of the poet men
take what meanings please them; yet
their last meaning points to thee.
THE day is no more, the shadow is
upon the earth. It is time that I go to
the stream to fill my pitcher.
The evening air is eager with the
sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me
out into the dusk. In the lonely lane
there is no passer by, the wind is up,
the ripples are rampant in the river.
I know not if I shall. come back
home. I know not whom I shall
chance to meet. There at the fording
in the little boat the unknown man
plays upon his lute.
DELIVERANCE is not for me in
renunciation. I feel the embrace of
freedom in a thousand bonds of
delight.
Thou ever pourest for me the
fresh draught of thy wine of various
colours and fragrance, filling this
earthen vessel to the brim.
My world will light its hundred
different lamps with thy flame and
place them before the altar of thy
temple.
No. I will never shut the doors of
my senses. The delights of sight and
hearing and touch will bear thy
delight.
Yes, all my illusions will burn into
illumination of joy, and all my desires
ripen into fruits of love.
HE it is, the innermost one, who
awakens my being with his deep
hidden touches.
He it is who puts his enchantment
upon these eyes and joyfully plays on
the chords of my heart in varied
cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this
maya in evanescent hues of gold and
silver, blue and green, and lets peep
out through the folds his feet, at
whose touch I forget myself.
Days come and ages pass, and it is
ever he who moves my heart in many
a name, in many a guise, in many a
rapture of joy and of sorrow.
THAT I should make much of myself
and turn it on all sides, thus casting
coloured shadows on thy radiance
such is thy maya
Thou settest a barrier in thine own
being and then tallest thy severed self
in myriad notes. This thy
self-separation has taken body in me.
The poignant song is echoed
through all the sky in many-coloured
tears and smiles, alarms and hopes;
waves rise up and sink again, dreams
break and form. In me is thy own
defeat of self.
This screen that thou hast raised
Is painted with innumerable figures
With the brush of the night and the
day. Behind it thy seat is woven in
wondrous mysteries of curves, casting
away all barren lines of straightness.
The great pageant of thee and me
Has overspread the sky. With the tune
of thee and me all the air is vibrant,
and all ages pass with the hiding and
seeking of thee and me.
Is it beyond thee to be glad with the
gladness of this rhythm ? to be tossed
and lost and broken in the whirl of
this fearful joy ?
All things rush on, they stop not,
they look not behind, no power can
hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless,
rapid music, seasons come dancing
and pass away- colours, tunes, and
perfumes pour in endless cascades in
the abounding joy that scatters and
gives up and dies every moment.
THE same stream of life that runs
through my veins night and day runs
through the world and dances in
rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in
joy through the dust of the earth in
numberless blades of grass and breaks
into tumultuous waves of leaves and
flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in
the ocean-cradle of birth and of
death, in ebb and in flow.
I feel my limbs are made glorious
by the touch of this world of life. And
my pride is from the life-throb of ages
dancing in my blood this moment.
THY sunbeam comes upon this earth of
mine with arms outstretched and
stands at my door the livelong day to
carry back to thy feet clouds made of
my tears and sighs and songs.
With fond delight thou wrappest
about thy starry breast that mantle of
misty cloud, turning it into
numberless shapes and folds and
colouring it with hues everchanging.
It is so light and so fleeting,
tender and tearful and dark, that is
why thou lowest it, 0 thou spotless
and serene. And that is why it may
cover thy awful white light with its
pathetic shadows.
THOU art the sky and thou art the nest
as well.
O thou beautiful, there in the nest
it is thy love that encloses the soul
with colours and sounds and odours.
There comes the morning with
the golden basket in her right hand
bearing the wreath of beauty, silently
to crown the earth.
And there comes the evening over
the lonely meadows deserted by
herds, through trackless paths,
carrying cool draughts of peace in her
golden pitcher from the western
ocean of rest.
But there, where spreads the
infinite sky for the soul to take her
flight in, reigns the stainless white
radiance. There is no day nor night,
nor form nor colour, and never, never
a word.
SHE who ever had remained in the
depth of my being, in the twilight of
gleams and of glimpses; she who
never opened her veils in the
morning light. will be my last gift to
thee, my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win
her; persuasion has stretched to her
its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to
country keeping her in the core of my
heart, and around her have risen and
fallen the growth and decay of my
life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my
slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet
dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door
and asked for her and turned away in
despair.
There was none in the world who
ever saw her face to face, and she
remained in her loneliness waiting for
thy recognition.
WHAT divine drink wouldst thou have,
my God, from this overflowing cup of
my life ?
My poet, is it thy delight to see thy
creation through my eyes and to stand
at the portals of my ears silently to listen to
thine own eternal harmony?
Thy world is weaving words in my
mind and thy joy is adding music to
them. Thou givest thyself to me in
love and then feelest thine own entire
sweetness in me.
ON the slope of the desolate river
among tall grasses I asked her,
"Maiden, where do you go shading
your lamp with your mantle ? My
house is all dark and lonesome- lend
me your light !" She raised her dark
eyes for a moment and looked at my
face through the dusk. "I have come to
the river," she said, "to float my lamp
on the stream when the daylight
wanes in the west." I stood alone
among tall grasses and watched the
timid flame of her lamp uselessly
drifting in the tide.
In the silence of gathering night I
asked her, "Maiden, your lights are all
lit- then where do you go with your
lamp ? My house is all dark and
lonesome,- lend me your light." She
raised her dark eyes on my face and
stood for a moment doubtful. "I have
come," she said at last, "to dedicate
my lamp to the sky." I stood and
watched her light uselessly burning in
the void.
In the moonless gloom of
midnight I asked her. "Maiden, what
is your quest holding the lamp near
your heart? My house is all dark and
lonesome,- lend me your light." she
stopped for a minute and thought and
gazed at my face in the dark. "I have
brought my light," she said, "to join
the carnival of lamps." I stood and
watched her little lamp uselessly lost.
among lights.
THOU hast made me known to friends
whom I knew not. Thou hast given
me seats in homes not my own. Thou
hast brought the distant near and
made a brother of the stranger
I am uneasy at heart when I have
to leave my accustomed shelter; I
forget that there abides the old in
the new, and that there also thou
abidest.
Through birth and death, in this
world or in others, wherever thou
leadest me it is thou, the same, the
one companion of my endless life
who ever linkest my heart with bonds
of joy to the unfamiliar.
When one knows thee, then alien
there is none, then no door is shut.
Oh, grant me my prayer that I may
never lose the bliss of the touch of
the one in the play of the many.
WHEN bring to you coloured toys, my
child, I understand why there is such
a play of colours on clouds, on water,
and why flowers are painted in tints
when I give coloured toys to you, my
child.
When I sing to make you dance I
truly know why there is music in
leaves, and why waves send their
chorus of voices to the heart of the
listening earth- when I sing to make
you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your
greedy hands I know why there is
honey in the cup of the flower and
why fruits are secretly filled with
sweet juice - when I bring sweet
things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you
smile, my darling, I surely understand
what the pleasure is that streams
from the sky in morning light, and
what delight that is which the
summer breeze brings to my body-
when I kiss you to make you smile.
THE sleep that flits on baby's eyes-
does anybody know from where it
comes ? Yes, there is a rumour that it
has its dwelling where, in the fairy
village among shadows of the forest
dimly lit with glow-worms, there
hang two timid buds of enchantment.
From there it comes to kiss baby's
eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's
lips when he sleeps- does anybody
know where it was born ? Yes, there
is a rumour that a young pale beam of
a crescent moon touched the edge of
a vanishing autumn cloud, and there
the smile was first born in the dream
of a dew-washed morning- the smile
that flickers on baby's lips when he
sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that
blooms on baby's limbs- does anybody
know where it was hidden so long ?
Yes, when the mother was a young
girl it lay pervading her heart in
tender and silent mystery of love –
the sweet, soft freshness that has
bloomed on baby's limbs.
ON the seashore of endless worlds
children meet. The infinite sky is
motionless overhead and the restless
water is boisterous. On the seashore
of endless worlds the children meet
with shouts and dances.
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.
The sea surges up with laughter
and pale gleams the smile of the sea
beach. Death-dealing waves sing
meaningless ballads to the children,
even like a mother while rocking her
baby's cradle. The sea plays with
children, and pale gleams the smile of
the sea beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds
children meet. Tempest roams in the
pathless sky, ships get wrecked in
the trackless water, death is abroad
and children play. On the seashore of
endless worlds is the great meeting of
children.