Tagore's Gitanjali ,POEM NO. 82

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. 

Tagore's Gitanjali,poem no. 83

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.

Tagore's Gitanjali,POEM NO. 84

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.

Tagore's Gitanjali, POEM NO. 85

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.

Tagore's Gitanjali, POEM NO. 86,

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. 

Tagore's Gitanjali, POEM NO. 87

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. 

Tagore's Gitanjali, POEM NO. 88,

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 un worshipped in deathless neglect.