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.
YES know, this is nothing but thy
love, 0 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.
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.
LIGHT, my light, the world-filling light,
the eye-kissing light, heart- swee-
tening light !
Ah, the light dances, my darling,
At the centre of my life; the light
strikes, my darling, the chords of my
love; the sky opens, the wind runs
wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails
on the sea of light. Lilies and jasmines
surge up on the crest of the waves of
light.
The light is shattered into gold on
every cloud, my darling, and it
scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my
darling, and gladness without
measure. The heaven's river has
drowned its banks and the flood of joy
is abroad.
THUS it is that thy joy in me is so full.
Thus it is that thou hast come down
to me. 0 thou lord of all heavens,
where would be thy love if I were
not ?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner
of all this wealth. In my heart is the
endless play of thy delight. In my life
thy will is ever taking shape.
And for this, thou who art the King
of kings hast decked thyself in beauty
to captivate my heart. And for this thy
love loses itself in the love of thy
lover, and there art thou seen in the
perfect union of two.
LANGUOR is upon your heart and the
slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that
the flower is reigning in splendour
among thorns? Wake, oh awaken ! Let
not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in
the country of virgin solitude my
friend is sitting all alone. Deceive him
not. Wake, oh awaken !
what if the sky pants and trembles
with the heat of the midday sun-
what if the burning sand spreads its
mantle of thirst-
Is there no joy in the deep of your
heart ? At every footfall of yours, will
not the harp of the road break out in
sweet music of pain ?
I ASKED nothing -from thee; I uttered
not my name to throe ear. When thou
took’st thy leave I stood silent. I was
alone by the well where the shadow of
the tree fell aslant, and the women
had gone home with their brown
earthen pitchers full to the brim.
They called me and shouted, "Come
with us, the morning is wearing on to
noon," But I languidly lingered awhile
lost in the midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou
camest. Throe eyes were sad when
they fell on me; thy voice was tired as
thou spokest low- "Ah, I am a thirsty
traveller." I started up from my
daydreams and poured water from my
jar on thy joined palms. The leaves
rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang
from the unseen dark, and perfume of
babla flowers came from the bend of
the road.
I stood speechless with shame
when my name thou didst ask.
Indeed, what had I done for thee to
keep me in remembrance ? But the
memory that I could give water to
thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my
heart and enfold it in sweetness. The
morning hour is late, the bird sings in
weary notes, neem leaves rustle
overhead and I sit and think and
think.
BEAUTIFUL is thy wristlet, decked with
stars and cunningly wrought in
myriad- coloured jewels. But more
beautiful to me thy sword with its
curve of lightning like the outspread
wings of the divine bird of Vishnu,
perfectly poised in the angry red light
of the sunset.
It quivers like the one last
response of life in ecstasy of pain at
the final stroke of death; it shines like
the pure flame of being burning up
earthly sense with one fierce flash.
Beautiful is thy wristlet, decked
with starry gems; but thy sword, 0
lord of thunder, is wrought with
uttermost beauty, terrible to behold
or to think of.
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 fetal 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 spreads 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
where to hide it. I am ashamed to
wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me
when I 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
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 decoratins
for me
THE night darkened. Our day's works
had been done. We thought that the
last guest had arrived for the night
and the doors in the village were all
shut. Only some said, The king was to
come. We laughed and said "No, it
cannot be !"
It seemed there were knocks at
the door and we said it was nothing
but the wind. We put out the lamps
and lay down to sleep. Only some said,
It is the messenger !" We laughed
and said "No, it must be the wind!"
There came a sound in the dead of
the night. We sleepily thought it was
the distant thunder. The earth shook,
the walls rocked, and it troubled us in
our sleep. Only some said, it was the
sound of wheels. We said in a drowsy
murmur, "No, it must be the rumbling
of clouds !"
The night was still dark when the
drum sounded. The voice came "Wake
up! delay not!" We pressed our hands
on our hearts and shuddered with
fear. Some said, "Lo, there is the
king’s flag !" We stood up on our feet
and cried" There is no time for delay !"
The king has come- but where
lights, where are wreaths ? Where
is the throne to seat him ? Oh,
shame, Oh utter shame ! Where is the
hall. the decorations? Some one has
said. 'Vain is this cry ! Greet him with
empty hands, lead him into thy rooms
all are!”
Open the doors, let the
conch-shells be sounded ! In the
depth of the night has come the king
of our dark, dreary house. The
thunder roars in the sky. The
darkness shudders with lightning.
Brings out thy tattered piece of mat
and spread it in the courtyard. With
the storm has come of a sudden our
king of the fearful night.
I HAD gone a-begging from door to
door in the village path, when thy
golden chariot appeared in the
distance like a gorgeous dream and I
wondered who was this King of all
kings!
My hopes rose high and
methought my evil days were at an
end, and I stood waiting for alms to
be given unasked and for wealth
scattered on all sides in the dust.
The chariot stopped where I
stood. Thy glance fell on me and thou
camest down with a smile. I felt that
the luck of my life had come at last.
Then of a sudden thou didst hold out
They right hand and say "What hast
thou to give to me ?"
Ah, what a kingly jest was it to
open thy palm to a beggar to beg ! I
Was confused and stood undecided,
And then from my wallet I slowly took
out the least little grain of corn and
gave it to thee.
But how great my surprise when at
the day's end I emptied my bag on the
floor to find a least little grain of gold
among the poor heap. I bitterly wept
and wished that I had had the heart
to dive thee my all.
You came down from your throne and
stood at my cottage door.
I was singing all alone in a corner,
and the melody caught your ear. You
came down and stood at my cottage
door.
Masters are many in your hall, and
songs are sung there at all hours. But
the simple carol of this novice struck
at your love. One plaintive little strain
mingled with the great music of the
world, and with a flower for a prize
you came down and stopped at my
cottage door.
You came down from your throne and
stood at my cottage door.
I was singing all alone in a corner,
and the melody caught your ear. You
came down and stood at my cottage
door.
Masters are many in your hall, and
songs are sung there at all hours. But
the simple carol of this novice struck
at your love. One plaintive little strain
mingled with the great music of the
world, and with a flower for a prize
you came down and stopped at my
cottage door.
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; the 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 honour 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 travelled, 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!
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 sound 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 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 why to-day 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.
HAVE you not heard his silent steps?
He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age,
every day and every night he comes,
comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a
mood of mind, but all their notes have
always proclaimed, "He comes,
comes, ever comes."
In the fragrant days of sunny April
through the forest path he comes,
comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights
on the thundering chariot of clouds
he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his
steps that press upon my heart, and it
is the golden touch of his feet that
makes my joy to shine.
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.
THE day was when I did not keep
myself in readiness for thee; and
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 of my life.
And to-day when by chance I light
upon them and see thy signature, I
find they have lain scattered in the
dust mixed with the memory of joys
and sorrows of my trivial days
forgotten.
Thou didst not turn in contempt
from my childish play among dust,
and the steps that I heard in my
playroom are the same that are
echoing from star to star.
EARLY in the day it was whispered that
we should sail in a boat, only thou and
I, and never a soul in the world would
know of this our pilgrimage to no
country and to no end.
In that shoreless ocean, at thy
silently listening smile my songs
would swell in melodies, free as
waves, free from all bondage of words.
Is the time not come yet? Are
there works still to do? Lo, the
evening has come down upon the
shore and in the fading light the
seabirds come flying to their nests.
Who knows when the chains will
be off, and the boat, like the last
glimmer of sunset, vanish into the
night?
WHERE dost thou stand behind them
all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass
thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours
spreading my offerings for- thee,
while passers by come and take my
flowers, one by one, and my basket is
nearly empty.
The morning time is past, and the
noon. In the shade of evening my eyes
are drowsy with sleep. 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.
Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them
that for thee I wait, and that thou
hast promised to come. How could I
utter for shame that I keep for my
dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this
pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit on the grass and gaze upon
the sky and dream of the sudden
splendor of thy coming-all the lights
ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy
car, and they at the roadside standing
agape, when they see thee come
down from thy seat to raise me from
the dust, and set at thy side this
ragged beggar girl a-tremble with
shame and pride, like a creeper in a
summer breeze.
But time glides on and still no
sound of the wheels of thy chariot.
Many a procession passes by with
noise and shouts and glamour of glory.
Is it only thou who wouldst stand in
the shadow silent and behind them
all? And only I who would wait and
weep and wear out my heart in vain
longing?
THE rain has held back for days and
days, my. God, in my arid heart. The
horizon is fiercely naked- not the
thinnest cover of a soft cloud, not the
vaguest hint of a distant cool shower.
Send thy angry storm, dark with
death, if it is thy wish, and with
lashes of lightning startle the sky
from end to end.
But call back, my lord, call back
this pervading silent heat, still and
keen and cruel, burning the heart
with dire despair.
Let the cloud of grace bend low
from above like the tearful look of the
mother on the day of the father's
wrath.
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, 0 thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and
thy thunder.
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.
I THOUGHT that my voyage had come to
its end at the last limit of my power,
-that the path before me was closed,
that provisions were exhausted and
the time come to take shelter in a
Silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no
end in me. And when old words die
out on the tongue, new melodies
break forth from the heart; and where
the old tracks are lost, new country is
revealed with its wonders.
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
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.
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.
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
WHEN it was day they came into my
house and said, "We shall only take
the smallest room here."
They said, "We shall help you in
the worship of your God and humbly
accept only our own share of his
grace"; and then they took their seat
in a corner and they sat quiet. and
meek.
But in the darkness of night 1 find
they break into my sacred shrine,
strong and turbulent, and snatch with
unholy greed the offerings from God's
altar.
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.
"PRlSONER, tell me, who was it that
bound you?"
"It was my master." said the
prisoner. "I thought I could outdo
everybody in the world in wealth and
power. and I amassed in my own
treasure-house the money due to my
king. When sleep overcame me I lay
upon the bed that was for my lord,
and on waking up I found I was a
prisoner in my own treasure-house."
"Prisoner, tell me who was it that
wrought this unbreakable chain?"
"It was I," said the prisoner. "who
forged this chain very carefully. I
thought my invincible power would
hold the world captive leaving me in a
freedom undisturbed. Thus night and
day- I worked at the chain with huge
fires and cruel hard strokes. When at
last the work was done and the links
were complete and unbreakable, I
found that it held me in its grip."
I CAME out alone on my way to my
tryst. But who is this that follows me
in the silent dark?
I move aside to avoid his presence
but I escape him not.
He makes the dust rise from the
earth with his swagger; he adds his
loud voice to every word that I utter.
He is my own little self, my lord,
he knows no shame; but I am
ashamed to come to thy door in his
company.
HE whom I enclose with my name is
weeping in this dungeon. I am ever
busy building this wall all around; and
as this wall goes up into the sky day
by day I lose sight of my true being in its
dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and
I plaster it with dust and sand lest a
least hole should be left in this name;
and for all the care I take I lose sight
of my true being.
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
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.
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.
HE came and sat by my side but I
woke not. What a cursed sleep it was,
O miserable me!
He came when the night was still;
he had his harp in his hands, and my
dreams became resonant with its
melodies.
Alas, why are my nights all thus
lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight
whose breath touches my sleep?
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.
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.
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 to-night. 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 many depth of
gloom art thou threading thy course
to come to me, my friend?
IN the deep shadows of the rainy July,
with secret steps, thou walkest, silent
as night, eluding all watchers.
To-day the morning has closed its
eyes, heedless of the insistent calls of
the loud east wind, and a thick veil
has been drawn over the ever-wakeful
blue sky.
The woodlands have hushed their
songs, and doors are all shut at every
house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer
in this deserted street. Oh my only
friend, my best beloved, the gates are
open in my house- do not pass by
like a dream.
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?
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.
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 wing in
songs from every one of my birds'
nests, and thy melodies will break
forth in flowers in all my forest
groves.
CLOUDS heap upon clouds and it
darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let
me wait outside at the door all alone ?
In the busy moments of the
noontide work I am with the crowd.
but on this dark lonely day it is only
for thee that I hope.
If thou showest me not thn face. if
thou leanest me wholly aside. I know
not how I am to pass these long. rainy
hours.
I keep gazing on the far away
gloom of the sky. and my heart
wanders wailing with the restless
wind.
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.
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 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 the
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.
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 gayest 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.
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 set; 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.
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 wilderness 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 !”
LEAVE this chanting and singing and
telling of beads! Whom dolt thou
worship in this lonely dark corner of
a temple with doors all shut? Open
thine eyes and see thy God is not
before thee!
He is there where the tiller is
tilling the hard ground and where the
path-maker is breaking stones. He is
with them in sun and in shower, and
his garment is covered with dust. Put
off thy holy mantle and even like him
come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance? Where is this
deliverance to be found? Our master
himself has joyfully taken upon him
the bonds of creation; he is bound
with us all for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and
leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there .if thy clothes
become tattered and stained? Meet
him and stand by him in toil and in
sweat of they brow.
HERE is thy footstool and there rest
thy feet where live the poorest, and
lowliest, and lost.
When I try to bow to thee, my
obeisance cannot reach down to the
depth where thy feet 'rest among the
poorest, and lowliest, and lost.
Pride can never approach to
where thou walkest in the clothes of
the humble among the poorest, and
lowliest, and lost.
My heart can never find its way to
where thou keepest company with
the companionless among the
poorest., the lowliest, and the lost.
O FOOL, to try to carry thyself upon thy
own shoulders! 0 beggar, to come to
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 child who is decked with prince's
robes and who has jewelled chains
round his neck loses all pleasure in
his play; his dress hampers him at
every step.
In fear that it may be frayed, or
stained with dust he keeps himself
from the world, and is afraid even to
move.
Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage
Of finery, if it keep one shut off from
the healthful dust of the earth, if it
rob one of the right of entrance to the
great fair of common human life.
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. 0 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.
PLUCK this little flower and take it,
delay not! I fear lest it droop and drop
into the dust.
It 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.
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.
To-day 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 quiet, face to
face with thee, and to sing dedication
of life in this silent and overflowing
leisure.
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 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!
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 wing 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.
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.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gitanjali
Gitanjali (Bangla Gitanjoli) is a collection of 103 English poems, largely translations, by the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore. This volume became very famous in the West, and was widely translated.
Gitanjali (গীতাঞ্জলি Gitanjoli) is also the title of an earlier Bengali volume (1910) of mostly devotional songs. The word gitanjoli is a composed from "git", song, and "anjoli", offering, and thus means - "An offering of songs"; but the word for offering, anjoli, has a strong devotional connotation, so the title may also be interpreted as "prayer offering of song".
The English collection is not a translation of poems from the Bengali volume of the same name. While half the poems (52 out of 103) in the English text were selected from the Bengali volume, others were taken from these works (given with year and number of songs selected for the English text): Gitimallo (1914,17), Noibeddo (1901,15), Khea (1906,11) and a handful from other works. The translations were often radical, leaving out or altering large chunks of the poem and in one instance even fusing two separate poems (song 95, which unifies songs 89,90 of naivedya).
The translations were undertaken prior to a visit to England in 1912, where the poems were extremely well received. A slender volume was published in 1913 with an exhilarating preface by WB Yeats, and in the same year, based on a corpus of three thin translations, Rabindranath became the first non-European to win the Nobel prize for literature.
The print version of Gitanjali is available at Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0684839342/103-5231479-7689456?v=glance&n=283155
The print version of Gitanjali: Published - 1913
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GITANJALI : Song Offerings
A collection of prose translations made by the author from the original Bengali
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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.
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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
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), Irish poet, dramatist and prose writer, one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. Yeats received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923.
William Butler Yeats was born on June 13, 1865 in Dublin. His father was a lawyer turned Pre-Raphaelite painter. In 1867 the family followed him to London and settled in Bedford Park. In 1881 they returned to Dublin, where Yeats studied at the Metropolitan School of Art. Reincarnation, communication with the dead, mediums, supernatural systems and Oriental mysticism fascinated Yeats through his life. In 1886 Yeats formed the Dublin Lodge of the Hermetic Society.
As a writer Yeats made his debut in 1885, when he published his first poems in The Dublin University Review. In 1887 the family returned to Bedford Park, and Yeats devoted himself to writing. He visited Mme Blavatsky, the famous occultist, and joined the Esoteric Section of the Theosophical Society, but was later asked to resign. In 1889 Yeats met his great love, Maud Gonne (1866-1953), an actress and Irish revolutionary who became a major landmark in his life and imagination. However, she married in 1903 Major John MacBride, and this episode inspired Yeats's poem "No Second Troy".
Yeats was interested in folktales as a part of an exploration of national heritage and for the revival of Celtic identity. His study with George Russell and Douglas Hyde of Irish legends and tales was published in 1888 under the title Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry. Yeats assembled for children a less detailed version, Irish Fairy Tales, which appeared in 1892. The Wanderings Of Oisin And Other Poems (1889), took its subject from Irish mythology.
In 1896 Yeats returned to live permanently in his home country. He reformed the Irish Literary Society, and then the National Literary Society in Dublin, which aimed to promote the New Irish Library. In 1897 he met Isabella Augusta, Lady Gregory, with whom he founded the Irish Literary Theatre. Yeats worked as a director of the theatre to the end of his life, writing several plays for it. His most famous dramas were Cathleen Ni Houlihan (1902) and The Land Of Heart's Desire (1894).
In early 1917 Yeats bought Thoor Ballyle, a derelict Norman stone tower near Coole Park. After restoring it, the tower became his summer home and a central symbol in his later poetry. In 1917 he married Georgie Hyde-Lee. During their honeymoon Yeats's wife demonstrated her gift for automatic writing. Their collaborative notebooks formed the basis of A Vision (1925), a book of marriage therapy spiced with occultism.
In 1932 Yeats founded the Irish Academy of Letters and in 1933 he was briefly involved with the fascist Blueshirts in Dublin. In his final years Yeats worked on the last version of A Vision, which attempted to present a theory of the variation of human personality, and published The Oxford Book Of Verse (1936) and New Poems (1938).
Yeats died on January 28, 1939 at the Hôtel Idéal Séjour, in Menton, France.
Source: http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/