gitanjali

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 ?