Tagore Poems

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.

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 nights 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 joy in human homes; 
and this it is that ever melts and flows in songs 
through my poet's heart.

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, O lord of thunder, 
is wrought with uttermost beauty, 
terrible to behold or think of.

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this 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 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 for a moment, 
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow 
in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.