The Gardener
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contributed by: Nirupama Ravindra
If it sets your heart aflutter,
I will take away my eyes from your face.
If it suddenly startles you in your walk,
I will step aside and take another path.
If it confuses you in your flower-weaving,
I will shun your lonely garden.
If it makes the water wanton and wild,
I will not row my boat by your bank.
Gitanjali
by Rabindranath Tagore
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."
Gitanjali (part Two)
by Rabindranath Tagore
(From Collected Poems and Plays of Rabindranath Tagore - MacMillian)
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 joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art
my Lord".
The First Jasmines
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
I seem to remember the first day when I filled my hands
with these jasmines, these white jasmines.
I have loved the sunlight, the sky and the green earth;
I have heard the liquid murmur of the river
through the darkness of midnight;
Autumn sunsets have come to me at the bend of the road
in the lonely waste, like a bride raising her veil
to accept her lover.
Yet my memory is still sweet with the first white jasmines
that I held in my hands when I was a child.
Many a glad day has come in my life,
and I have laughed with merrymakers on festival nights.
On grey mornings of rain
I have crooned many an idle song.
I have worn round my neck the evening wreath of
BAKULAS woven by the hand of love.
Yet my heart is sweet with the memory of the first fresh jasmines
that filled my hands when I was a child.
My Song
by Rabindranath Tagore
The song of mine will touch your forehead
like a kiss of blessing.
When you are alone it will sit by your side and
whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd
it will fence you about with aloofness.
My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams,
it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.
It will be like the faithful star overhead
when dark night is over your road.
My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes,
and will carry your sight into the heart of things.
And when my voice is silenced in death,
my song will speak in your living heart.
The Gift
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
for we are drifting in the stream of the world.
Our lives will be carried apart,
and our love forgotten.
But I am not so foolish as to hope that
I could buy your heart with my gifts.
Young is your life, your path long, and
you drink the love we bring you at one draught
and turn and run away from us.
You have your play and your playmates.
What harm is there if you have no time
or thought for us.
We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age
to count the days that are past,
to cherish in our hearts what our
hands have lost for ever.
The river runs swift with a song,
breaking through all barriers.
But the mountain stays and remembers,
and follows her with his love.
The Gardener
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This short poem is an excerpt from 'The Gardener' by Tagore)
birds do not sing, the wind does not stir,
the houses on both sides pf the street stand silent.
When I sit on my balcony and listen to his footsteps,
leaves do not rustle on the trees, and the waster
is still in the river like the sword on the
knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly -
I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by my side,
when my body trembles and my eyelids droop,
the night darkens, the winds blow out the lamp,
and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines
and gives light. I do not know how to hide it."
The Banyan Tree
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
have you forgotten the little child,
like the birds that have nested in your branches and left you?
Do you not remember how he sat at the window
and wondered at the tangle of your roots that plunged underground?
The women would come to fill their jars in the pond,
and your huge black shadow would wriggle
on the water like sleep struggling to wake up.
Sunlight danced on the ripple like
restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry.
Two ducks swam by the woody margin above their shadows,
and the child would sit still and think.
He longed to be the wind and blow through your rustling branches,
to be your shadow and legthen with the day on the water,
to be a bird and perch on your topmost twig,
andto float like those ducks among the weeds and shadows.
The Flower-School
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
"When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and
June showers come down,
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath
to blow its bagpipes amongst the bamboos.
The crowds of flowers come out of a sudden,
from nobody knows where,
and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut,
and if they want to come out to play before it is time,
their master makes them stand in a corner.
When the rains come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest,
and the leaves rustle in the wild wind,
the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and
the flower children rush out i dresses of
pink, yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky,
where the stars are.
Haven't you seen how eager they are to get there?
Don't you know why they are in such a hurry?
Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms,
they have their motheer as I have my own."
Contributed by: Vijendran Rao VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU
The Child Angel
by Rabindranath Tagore
Let your life come amongst them like a flame of light, my child, unflickering and pure, and delight them into silence.
their words are like hidden knives thirsting for blood.Go and stand amidst their scowling hearts, my child,
and let your gentle eyes fall upon them like the
forgiving peace of the evening over the strife of the day.Let them see your face, my child, and thus know
the meaning of all things, let them love you and love each other.Come and take your seat in the bosom of the limitless, my child.
At sunrise open and raise your heart like a blossoming flower,
and at sunset bend your head and in silence
complete the worship of the day.Excerpts From The Gardener
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contributed by: Sushmita Bolisetty
(Excerpts from The Gardener by Ravindranath Tagore)
I try to wreath all the morning, but the flowers slip and they drop out. You sit there watching me in secret through the corner of your prying eyes. Ask those eyes, darkly planning mischief, whose fault it was. I try to sing a song, but in vain. A hidden smile trembles on your lips; ask of it the reason of my failure. Let your smiling lips say on oath how my voice lost itself in silence like a drunken bee in the lotus It is evening, and the time for the flowers to close their petals. Give me leave to sit by your side, and bid my lips to do the work that can be done in silence and in the dim light of stars.
You who smile so gently, softly whisper, my heart will hear it, not my ears.
The night is deep, the house is silent, the birds' nests are shrouded with sleep.
Speak to me through hesitating tears, through faltering smiles,
through sweet shame and pain, the secret of your heart!Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sang.
The night is dark.The stars are lost in clouds.
The wind is sighing through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair. My blue cloak will cling round me like night.
I will clasp your head to my bosom; and there in the sweet loneliness murmur on your heart.
I will shut my eyes and listen. I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will sit still and silent.
Only the trees will whisper in the dark.
The night will pale. The day will dawn. We shall look at each other's eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love! Tell me in words what you sangLove, my heart longs day and night for the meeting with you
-for the meeting that is all-devouring death.
Sweep me away like a storm; take everything I have;
break open my sleep and plunder my dreams. Rob me of my world.
In that devastation, in the utter nakedness of spirit, let us become one in beauty.
Alas for my vain desire! Where is this hope for union except in thee, my God?Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.Then finish the last song and let us leave.
Forget this night when the night is no more.
Whom do I try to clasp in my arms? Dreams can never be made captive.
My eager hands press emptiness to my heart and it bruises my heart.Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus
begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlight night of March; the sweet smell of henna
is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers
is unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some
smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible;
no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our
hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.Your questioning eyes are sad. They seek to know my meaning
as the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, with
nothing hidden or held back. That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem, I could break it into a hundred pieces
and string them into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, I could pluck it
from its stem and set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved. Where are its shores and its bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom, still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy smile,
and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears, reflecting its
inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and wealth.
It is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know itDo not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when Iam sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I start up and stretch my hands to touch you.
I ask myself, "Is it a dream?"
Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them
fast my breast!
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.I have plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that
the flower had faded, but the pain remained.
More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night
I have not my rose, only the pain remains.Twelve O'Clock
by Rabindranath TagoreContributed by: Vijendran Rao
VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU (This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore) Mother, I do want to leave off my lessons now.
You say it is only twelve o'clock. Suppose it isn't very late;can't you ever think it is afternoon when it is only twelve o'clock? I can easily imagine now that the sun has reached the edge of that rice-field, and the old fish-woman is gathering herbs for her supper by the side of the pond. I can just shut my eyes and think that the shadows are growing darker under the MADAR tree, and the water in the pond looks shiny black. If twelve o'clodk can come in the night, why can't the night come when it is twelve o'clock?
Sympathy
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contributed by: Vijendran Rao
VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
would you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish? Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Go away, you naughty little puppy"? Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call me, and l never let you feed me any more. If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away? Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful wrertch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night"? Then go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will never let you take me in your arms again.Contributed by: Vijendran Rao VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU
Superior
by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absolutely childish! She does not knoe the difference between the lights in the streets and the stars. When we play at eating pebble, she thinks they are real food, and tries to put them into her mouth. When I open a book before her and ask her to learn her a,b,c, she tears the leaves with her hand and roars for joy at nothing; this is your baby's way of doing her lesson. When I shake my head at her in anger and scold her and call her naughty, she laughs and thinks it great fun. Everybody knows that father is away, but if in play I call aloud "Father," she looks about her in excitement and thinks that father is near. When I hold my class with the donkey that our washerman brings to carry away the clothes and I warn her that I am the schoolmaster, she will scream for no reason and call me dada. Your baby wants to catch the moon. She is so funny; she calls Ganesh Ganush. Mother, your baby is silly! She is so absurdly childish!My Dependence
by Rabindranath Tagore
I like to be dependent, and so for ever with warmth and care of my mother my father , to love, kiss and embrace wear life happily in all their grace. I like to be dependent, and so for ever on my kith and kin, for they all shower harsh and warm advices, complaints full wondering ,true and info giants. I like to be dependent, and so for ever for my friends, chat and want me near with domestic,family and romantic tips colleagues as well , guide me work at risks. I like to be dependent, and so for ever for my neighbours too, envy at times when at my rise of fortune like to hear my daily steps , easy and odd things too. Ungrateful Sorrow
by Rabindranath Tagore
Translated/ Contributed by: Snehendu Bikash Kar
kar@ucla.edu
( Translated from:
"Ungrateful Sorrow (Grief)" by: Rabindranath Thakur (Tagore), in Lipika (means- Notes) : Collected Works, Vol-26, p. 105. ) At dawn shey(1) departed My mind tried to console me - " Everything is Maya(2)". Angrily I replied: "Here's this sewing box on the table, that flower-pot on the terrace, this monogrammed hand-fan on the bed--- all these are real." My mind said: "Yet, think again." I rejoined: " You better stop. Look at this storybook, the hairpin halfway amongst its leaves, signaling the rest is unread; if all these things are "Maya", then why should "shey" be more unreal?" My mind becomes silent. A friend arrived and says: "That which is good is real it is never non-existent; entire world preserves and cherishes it its chest like a precious jewel in a necklace." I replied in anger: "How do you know? Is a body not good? Where did that body go?" Like a small boy in a rage hitting his mother, I began to strike at everything in this world that gave me shelter. And I screamed:" The world is treacherous." Suddenly, I was startled. It seemed like someone admonished me :" You- ungrateful ! " I looked at the crescent moon hidden behind the tamarisk tree outside my window. As if the dear departed one is smiling and playing hide-and-seek with me. From the depth of darkness punctuated by scattered stars came a rebuke: "when I let you grasp me you call it an deception, and yet when I remain concealed, why do you hold on to your faith in me with such conviction?"
Benediction
VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU
Contributed by: Vijendran Rao by Rabindranath Tagore
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of heaven for our earth. He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his mother's face. He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after gold. Clasp him to your heart and bless him. He has come into this land of an hundred crossroads. I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door, and grasped your hand to ask his way. He will follow you, laughing and talking, and not a doubt in his heart. Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him. Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace. Contributed by: Vijendran Rao VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU (This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
The Recall
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contributed by: Vijendran Rao VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU (This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore) Authorship
by Rabindranath Tagore
You say that father writes a lot of books, but what he writes I don't understand. He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really make out what he meant? What nice stories, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father write like that, I wonder? Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and fairies and princesses? Has he forgotten them all? Often when he gets late for his bath you have to go and call him an hundred times. You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on writing and forgets. Father always plays at making books. If I ever go to play in father's room, you come and call me,"What a naughty child!" If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that father's at his work?" What is the fun of always writing and writing? When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book just as he does, - a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i, - why do you get cross with me then, mother? You never say a word when father writes. When my father wates heaps and heaps of papers, mother, you don't seem to mind at all. But if I take only one sheet to make a boat with, you say, "Child, how troublesome you are!" What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of paper with black marks all over on both sides?The End
by Rabindranath Tagore
Contributed by: Vijendran Rao
VPR@LNS62.LNS.CORNELL.EDU
(This poem is from 'The Crescent Moon' by Tagore)
It is time for meto go, mother; I am going.When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not there!" - mother, I am going. I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe; and kiss you and kiss you again. In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flashwith the lightning through the open window into your room. If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you form the stars, "Sleep, mother, sleep." On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep. I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness. When, on the great festival of PUJA, the neighbours' children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day. Dear suntie will come with your PUJA presents and will ask, "Where is our baby, sister? Mother you tell her softly, "He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is my body and my soul."RABINDRANATH TAGORE Rabindranath Tagore (bahasa Bengali: Rabindranath Thakur; lahir di Jorasanko, Kolkata, India, 7 Mei 1861 – meninggal 7 Agustus 1941 pada umur 80 tahun [γ]) juga dikenal dengan nama Gurudev,[δ] adalah seorang Brahmo Samaj,penyair, dramawan, filsuf, seniman, musikus dan sastrawan Bengali. Ia terlahir dalam keluarga Brahmana Bengali, yaituBrahmana yang tinggal di wilayah Bengali, daerah di anakbenua India antara India dan Bangladesh. Tagore merupakan orang Asia pertama yang mendapat anugerah Nobel dalam bidang sastra (1913)
Tagore mulai menulis puisi sejak usia delapan tahun, ia menggunakan
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