Fireflies
My
fancies
are
fireflies,
—
Specks
of
living
light
twinkling
in
the
dark.
he
voice
of
wayside
pansies,
that
do
not
attract
the
careless
glance,
murmurs
in
these
desultory
lines.
In
the
drowsy
dark
caves
of
the
mind
dreams
build
their
nest
with
fragments
dropped
from
day's
caravan.
Spring
scatters
the
petals
of
flowers
that
are
not
for
the
fruits
of
the
future,
but
for
the
moment's
whim.
Joy
freed
from
the
bond
of
earth's
slumber
rushes
into
numberless
leaves,
and
dances
in
the
air
for
a
day.
My
words
that
are
slight
my
lightly
dance
upon
time's
waves
when
my
works
havy
with
import
have
gone
down.
Mind's
underground
moths
grow
filmy
wings
and
take
a
farewell
flight
in
the
sunset
sky.
The
butterfly
counts
not
months
but
moments,
and
has
time
enough.
My
thoughts,
like
spark,
ride
on
winged
surprises,
carrying
a
single
laughter.
The
tree
gazes
in
love
at
its
own
beautiful
shadow
which
yet
it
never
can
grasp.
Let
my
love,
like
sunlight,
surround
you
and
yet
give
you
illumined
freedom.
Days
are
coloured
vbubbles
that
float
upon
the
surface
of
fathomless
night.
My
offerings
are
too
timid
to
claim
your
remembrance,
and
therefore
you
may
remember
them.
Leave
out
my
name
from
the
gift
if
it
be
a
burden,
but
keep
my
song.
April,
like
a
child,
writes
hieroglyphs
on
dust
with
flowers,
wipes
them
away
and
forgets.
Memory,
the
priestess,
kills
the
present
and
offers
its
heart
to
the
shrine
of
the
dead
past.
From
the
solemn
gloom
of
the
temple
children
run
out
to
sit
in
the
dust,
God
watches
them
play
and
forgets
the
priest.
My
mind
starts
up
at
some
flash
on
the
flow
of
its
thoughts
like
a
brook
at
a
sudden
liquid
note
of
its
own
that
is
never
repeated.
In
the
mountain,
stillness
surges
up
to
explore
its
own
height;
in
the
lake,
movement
stands
still
to
contemplate
its
own
depth.
The
departing
night's
one
kiss
on
the
closed
eyes
of
morning
glows
in
the
star
of
dawn.
Maiden,
thy
beauty
is
like
a
fruit
which
is
yet
to
mature,
tense
with
an
unyielding
secret.
Sorrow
that
has
lost
its
memory
is
like
the
dumb
dark
hours
that
have
no
bird
songs
but
only
the
cricket's
chirp.
Bigotry
tries
to
keep
turth
safe
in
its
hand
with
a
grip
that
kills
it.
Wishing
to
hearten
a
timid
lamp
great
night
lights
all
her
stars.
Though
he
holds
in
his
arms
the
earth-bride,
the
sky
is
ever
immensely
away.
God
seeks
comrades
and
claims
love,
the
Devil
seeks
slaves
and
claims
obedience.
The
soil
in
return
for
her
service
keeps
the
tree
tied
to
her,
the
sky
asks
nothing
and
leaves
it
free.
Jewel-like
immortal
does
not
boast
of
its
length
of
years
but
of
the
scintillating
point
of
its
moment.
The
child
ever
dwells
in
the
mystery
of
ageless
time,
unobscured
by
the
dust
of
history.
Alight
laughter
in
the
steps
of
creation
carries
it
swiftly
across
time.
One
who
was
distant
came
near
to
me
in
the
morning,
and
still
nearer
when
taken
away
by
night.
White
and
pink
oleanders
meet
and
make
merry
in
different
dialects.
When
peace
is
active
swepping
its
dirt,
it
is
storm.
The
lake
lies
low
by
the
hill,
a
tearful
entreaty
of
love
at
the
foot
of
the
inflexible.
There
smiles
the
Divine
Child
among
his
playthings
of
unmeaning
clouds
and
ephemeral
lights
and
shadows.
The
breeze
whispers
to
the
lotus,
"What
is
thy
secret?"
"It
is
myself,"
says
the
lotus,
"Steal
it
and
I
disappear!"
The
freedom
of
the
storm
and
the
bondage
of
the
stem
join
hands
in
the
dance
of
swaying
branches.
The
jasmine's
lisping
of
love
to
the
sun
is
her
flowers.
The
tyrant
claims
freedom
to
kill
freedom
and
yet
to
keep
it
for
himself.
Gods,
tired
of
their
paradise,
envy
man.
Clouds
are
hills
in
vapour,
hills
are
clouds
in
stone,
—
a
phantasy
in
time's
dream.
While
God
waits
for
His
temple
to
be
built
of
love,
men
bring
stones.
I
touch
God
in
my
song
as
the
hill
touches
the
far-away
sea
with
its
waterfall.
Light
finds
her
treasure
of
colours
through
the
antagonism
of
clouds.
My
heart
to-day
smiles
at
its
past
night
of
tears
like
a
wet
tree
glistening
in
the
sun
after
the
rain
is
over.
I
have
thanked
the
trees
that
have
made
my
life
fruitflul,
but
have
failed
to
remember
the
grass
that
has
ever
kept
it
green.
The
one
without
second
is
emptiness,
the
other
one
makes
it
true.
Life's
errors
cry
for
the
merciful
beauty
that
can
modulate
their
isolation
into
a
harmony
with
the
whole.
They
expect
thanks
for
the
banished
nest
because
their
cage
is
shapely
and
secure.
In
love
I
pay
my
endless
debt
to
thee
for
what
thou
art.
The
pond
sends
up
its
lyrics
from
its
dark
in
lilies,
and
the
sun
says,
they
are
good.
Your
calumny
against
the
great
is
impious,
it
hurts
yourself;
against
the
small
it
is
mean,
for
it
hurts
the
victim.
The
first
flower
that
blossomed
on
this
earth
was
an
invitation
to
the
unborn
song.
Dawn—the
many-coloured
flower—fades,
and
then
the
simple
light-fruit,
the
sun
appears.
The
muscle
that
has
a
doubt
if
its
wisdom
throttles
the
voice
that
would
cry.
The
wind
tries
to
take
the
flame
by
storm
only
to
blow
it
out.
Life's
play
is
swift,
Life's
playthings
fall
behind
one
by
one
and
are
forgotten.
My
flower,
seek
not
thy
paradise
in
a
fool's
buttonhole.
Thou
hast
risen
late,
my
crescent
moon,
but
my
night
bird
is
still
awake
to
greet
thee.
Darkness
is
the
veiled
bride
silently
waiting
for
the
errant
light
to
return
to
her
bosom.
Trees
are
the
earth's
endless
effort
to
speak
to
the
listening
heaven.
The
burden
of
self
is
lightened
when
I
laugh
at
myself.
The
weak
can
be
terrible
because
they
try
furiously
to
appear
strong.
The
wind
of
heaven
blows,
The
anchor
desperately
clutches
the
mud,
and
my
boat
is
beating
its
breast
against
the
chain.
The
spirit
of
death
is
one,
the
spirit
of
life
is
many,
Whe
God
is
dead
religion
becomes
one.
The
blue
of
the
sky
longs
for
the
earth's
green,
the
wind
between
them
sighs,
"Alas."
Day's
pain
muffled
by
its
own
glare,
burns
among
stars
in
the
night.
The
stars
crowd
round
the
virgin
night
in
silent
awe
at
her
loneliness
that
can
never
be
touched.
The
cloud
gives
all
its
gold
to
the
departing
sun
and
greets
the
rising
moon
with
only
a
pale
smile.
He
who
does
good
comes
to
the
temple
gate,
he
who
loves
reaches
the
shrine.
Flower,
have
pity
for
the
worm,
it
is
not
a
bee,
its
love
is
a
blunder
and
a
burden.
With
the
ruins
of
terror's
triumph
children
build
their
doll's
house.
The
lamp
waits
through
the
long
day
of
neglect
for
the
flame's
kiss
in
the
night.
Feathers
in
the
dust
lying
lazily
content
have
forgotten
their
sky.
The
flowers
which
is
single
need
not
envy
the
thorns
that
are
numerous.
The
world
suffers
most
from
the
disinterested
tyranny
of
its
well-wisher.
We
gain
freedom
whrn
we
have
paid
the
full
price
for
our
right
to
live.
Your
careless
gifts
of
a
moment,
like
the
meteors
of
an
autumn
night,
catch
fire
in
the
depth
of
my
being.
The
faith
waiting
in
the
heart
of
a
seed
promises
a
miracle
of
life
which
it
cannot
prove
at
once.
Spring
hesitates
at
winter's
door,
but
the
mango
blossom
rashly
runs
our
to
him
before
her
time
and
meets
her
doom.
The
world
is
the
ever-changing
foam
thet
floats
on
the
surface
of
a
sea
of
silence.
The
two
separated
shores
mingle
their
voices
in
a
song
of
unfathomed
tears.
As
a
river
in
the
sea,
work
finds
its
fulfilment
in
the
depth
of
leisure.
I
lingered
on
my
way
till
thy
cherry
tree
lost
ist
bossom,
but
the
azalea
brins
to
me,
my
love,
thy
forgiveness.
Thy
shy
little
pomegranate
bud,
blushing
to-day
behind
her
veil,
will
burst
into
a
passionate
flower
to-morrow
when
I
am
away.
The
clumsiness
of
power
spoils
the
key,
and
uses
the
pickaxe.
Birth
is
from
the
mystery
of
night
into
the
grerater
mystery
of
day.
These
paper
boats
of
mine
are
meant
to
dance
on
the
ripples
of
hours,
and
not
to
reach
any
destination.
Migratory
songs
wing
from
my
heart
and
seek
their
nests
in
your
voice
of
love.
The
sea
of
danger,
doubt
and
denial
around
man's
little
island
of
certainty
challenges
him
to
dare
the
unknown.
Love
punishes
when
it
forgives,
and
injured
beauty
by
its
awful
silence.
You
live
alone
and
unrecompensed
because
they
are
afraid
of
your
great
worth.
The
same
sun
is
newly
born
in
new
lands
in
a
ring
of
endless
dawns.
God
is
world
is
ever
renewed
by
death,
a
Titan's
ever
crushed
by
its
own
existence.
The
glow-worm
while
exploring
the
dust
never
knows
that
stars
are
in
the
sky.
The
tree
is
of
to-day,
the
flower
is
old,
it
brings
with
it
the
message
of
the
immemorial
seed.
Each
rose
that
comes
brings
me
greetings
from
the
Rose
of
an
eternal
spring.
God
honours
me
when
I
work,
He
loves
me
when
I
sing.
My
love
of
to-day
finds
no
home
in
the
nest
deserted
by
yesterday's
love.
The
fire
of
pain
tracse
for
my
soul
a
luminous
path
across
her
sorrow.
The
grass
survives
the
hill
through
its
resurrections
from
countless
deaths.
Thou
hast
vanished
from
my
reach
leaving
an
impalpable
touch
in
the
blue
of
the
sky,
an
invisible
image
in
the
wind
moving
among
the
shadows.
In
pity
for
the
desolate
branch
spring
leaves
to
it
a
kiss
that
fluttered
in
a
lonely
leaf.
The
shy
shadow
in
the
farden
loves
the
sun
in
silence,
Flowers
guess
the
secret,
and
mile,
while
the
leaves
whisper.
I
leave
no
trace
of
wings
in
the
air,
but
I
am
glad
I
have
had
my
flight.
The
fireflies,
twinkling
among
leaves,
make
the
stars
wonder.
The
mountain
remains
unmoved
at
its
seeming
defeat
by
the
mist.
While
the
rose
said
to
the
sun,
"I
shall
ever
remember
thee,"
her
petals
fell
to
the
dust.
Hills
are
the
earth's
gesture
of
despair
for
the
unreachable.
Though
the
thorn
in
thy
flower
pricked
me,
O
Beauty,
I
am
grateful.
The
world
knows
that
the
few
are
more
than
the
many.
Let
not
my
love
be
a
burden
on
you,
my
friend,
know
that
it
pays
itself.
Dawn
plays
her
lute
before
the
gate
of
darkness,
and
is
content
to
vanish
when
the
sun
comes
out.
Beauty
is
truth's
smile
when
she
beholds
her
own
face
in
a
perfect
mirror.
The
dew-drop
knows
the
sun
only
within
its
own
tiny
orb.
Forlorn
thoughts
from
the
forsaken
hives
of
all
ages,
swarming
in
the
air,
hum
round
my
heart
and
seek
my
voice.
The
desert
is
imprisoned
in
the
wall
of
its
unbounded
barrenness.
In
the
thrill
of
little
leaves
I
see
the
air's
invisible
dance,
and
in
their
glimmering
the
secret
heart-beats
of
the
sky.
You
are
like
a
flowering
tree,
amazed
when
I
praise
you
for
your
gifts.
The
earth's
sacrifical
fire
flames
up
in
her
trees,
scattering
sparks
in
flowers.
Foretsts,
the
clouds
of
earth,
hold
up
to
the
sky
their
silence,
and
clouds
from
above
come
down
in
resonant
showers.
The
world
speaks
to
me
in
pictures,
my
soul
answers
in
music.
The
sky
tells
its
beads
all
night
on
the
countless
stars
in
memory
of
the
sun.
The
darkness
of
night,
like
pain,
is
dumb,
the
darkness
of
dawn,
like
peace,
is
silent.
Pride
engraves
his
frowns
in
stones,
loe
offers
her
surrender
in
flowers.
The
obsequious
brush
curtails
truth
in
diference
to
the
canvas
which
is
narrow.
The
hill
in
its
longing
for
the
far-away
sky
wishes
to
be
like
the
cloud
with
its
endless
urge
of
seeking.
To
justify
their
own
spilling
of
ink
they
spell
the
day
as
night.
Profit
smiles
on
goodness
when
the
good
is
profitable.
In
its
swelling
pride
the
bubble
doubts
the
turth
of
the
sea,
and
laughs
and
bursts
into
emptiness.
Love
is
an
endless
mystery,
for
it
has
nothing
else
to
explain
its.
My
clouds,
sorrowing
in
the
dark,
forget
that
they
themselves
have
hidden
the
sun.
Man
discovers
his
own
wealth
when
God
comes
to
ask
gifts
of
him.
You
leave
your
memory
as
a
flame
to
my
lonely
lamp
of
separation.
I
came
to
offer
thee
a
flower,
but
thou
must
have
all
my
garden,—
It
is
thine.
The
picture—a
memory
of
light
treasured
by
the
shadow.
It
is
easy
to
make
faces
at
the
sun,
He
is
exposed
by
his
own
light
in
all
directions.
History
slowly
smothers
its
truth,
but
hastily
struggles
to
revive
it
in
the
terrible
penance
of
pain.
My
work
is
rewarded
in
daily
wages,
I
wait
for
my
final
value
in
love.
Beauty
knows
to
say,
"Enough,"
barbarism
clamours
for
still
more.
God
loves
to
see
in
me,
not
his
servant,
but
himself
who
serves
all.
The
darkness
of
night
is
in
harmony
with
day,
the
morning
of
mist
is
discordant.
In
the
bounteous
time
of
roses
love
is
wine,—
it
is
food
in
the
famished
hour
when
their
petals
are
shed.
An
unknown
flower
in
a
strange
land
speaks
to
the
poet:
"Are
we
not
of
the
same
soil,
my
lover?"
I
am
able
to
love
my
God
because
He
gives
me
freedom
to
deny
Him.
My
untuned
strings
beg
for
music
in
their
anguished
cry
of
shame.
The
worm
thinks
it
strange
and
foolish
that
man
does
not
eat
his
books.
The
clouded
sky
to-day
bears
the
visior
of
the
shadow
of
a
divine
sadness
on
the
forehead
of
brooding
eternity.
The
shade
of
my
tree
is
for
passers-by,
its
fruit
for
the
one
for
whom
I
wait.
Flushed
with
the
glow
of
sunset
earth
seems
like
a
ripe
fruit
ready
to
be
harvested
by
night.
Light
accepts
darkness
for
his
spouse
for
the
sake
of
creation.
The
reed
waits
for
his
master's
breath,
the
Master
goes
seeking
for
his
reed.
To
the
blind
pen
the
hand
that
writes
is
unreal,
its
writing
unmeaning.
The
sea
smites
his
own
barren
breast
because
he
has
no
flowers
to
offer
to
the
moon.
The
greed
for
fruit
misses
the
flower.
God
in
His
temple
of
stars
waits
for
man
to
bring
him
his
lamp.
The
fire
restrained
in
the
tree
fashions
flowers.
Released
from
bonds,
the
shameless
flame
dies
in
barren
ashes.
The
sky
sets
no
snare
to
capture
the
moon,
it
is
her
own
freedom
which
binds
her.
The
light
that
fills
the
sky
seeks
its
limit
in
a
dew-drop
on
the
grass.
Wealth
is
the
burden
of
bigness,
Welfare
the
fulness
of
being.
The
razor-blade
is
proud
of
its
keenness
when
it
sneers
at
the
sun.
The
butterfly
has
leisure
to
love
the
lotus,
not
the
bee
busily
storing
honey.
Child,
thou
bringest
to
my
heart
the
babble
of
the
wind
and
the
water,
the
flower's
speechless
secrets,
the
clouds'
dreams,
the
mute
gaze
of
wonder
of
the
morning
sky.
The
rainbow
among
the
clouds
may
be
great
but
the
little
butterfly
among
the
bushes
is
greater.
The
mist
weaves
her
net
round
the
morning,
captivates
him,
and
makes
him
blind.
The
Morning
Star
whispers
to
Dawn,
"Tell
me
that
you
are
only
for
me."
"Yes,"
she
answers,
"And
also
only
for
that
nameless
flower."
The
sky
remains
infinitely
vacant
for
earth
there
to
build
its
heaven
with
dreams.
Perhaps
the
crescent
moon
smiles
in
doubt
at
being
told
that
it
is
a
fragment
awaiting
perfection.
Let
the
evening
forgive
the
mistakes
of
the
day
and
thus
win
peace
for
herself.
Beauty
smiles
in
the
confinement
of
the
bud,
in
the
heart
of
a
sweet
incompleteness.
Your
flitting
love
lightly
brushed
with
its
wings
my
sun-flower
and
never
asked
if
it
was
ready
to
surrender
its
honey.
Leaves
are
silences
around
flowers
which
are
their
words.
The
tree
bears
its
thousand
years
as
one
large
majestic
moment.
My
offerings
are
not
for
the
temple
at
the
end
of
the
road,
but
for
the
wayside
shrines
that
surprise
me
at
every
bend.
Hour
smile,
my
love,
like
the
smell
of
a
strange
flower,
is
simple
and
inexplicable.
Death
laughs
when
the
merit
of
the
dead
is
exaggerated
for
it
swells
his
store
with
more
than
he
can
claim.
The
sigh
of
the
shore
follows
in
vain
the
breeze
that
hastens
the
ship
across
the
sea.
Truth
loves
its
limits,
for
there
it
meets
the
beautiful.
Between
the
shores
of
Me
and
Thee
there
is
the
loud
ocean,
my
own
surging
self,
which
I
long
to
cross.
The
right
to
possess
boasts
foolishly
of
its
right
to
enjoy.
The
rose
is
a
great
deal
more
than
a
blushing
apology
for
the
thorn.
Day
offers
to
the
silence
of
stars
his
golden
lute
to
be
tuned
for
the
endless
life.
The
wise
know
how
to
teach,
the
fool
how
to
smite.
The
centre
is
still
and
silent
in
the
heart
of
an
enternal
dance
of
circles.
The
judge
thinks
that
he
is
just
when
he
compares
The
oil
of
another's
lamp
with
the
light
of
his
own.
The
captive
flower
in
the
King's
wreath
smiles
bitterly
when
the
meadow-flower
envies
her.
Its
store
of
snow
is
the
hill's
own
burden,
its
outpouring
if
streams
is
borne
by
all
the
world.
Listen
to
the
prayer
of
the
forest
for
its
freedom
in
flowers.
Let
your
love
see
me
even
through
the
barrier
of
nearness.
The
spirit
of
work
in
creation
is
there
to
carry
and
help
the
spirit
of
play.
To
carry
the
burden
of
the
insturment,
count
the
cost
of
its
material,
and
never
to
know
that
it
is
for
music,
is
the
tragedy
of
deaf
life.
Faith
is
the
bird
that
feels
the
light
and
sings
when
the
dawn
is
still
dark.
I
bring
to
thee,
night,
my
day's
empty
cup,
to
be
cleansed
with
thy
cool
darkness
for
a
new
morning's
festival.
The
mountain
fir,
in
its
rustling,
modulates
the
memory
of
its
fights
with
the
storm
into
a
hymn
of
peace.
God
honoured
me
with
his
fight
when
I
was
rebellious,
He
ignored
me
when
I
was
languid.
The
sectarina
thinks
that
he
has
the
sea
ladled
into
his
private
pond.
In
the
shady
depth
of
life
are
the
lonely
nests
of
memories
that
shrink
from
words.
Let
my
love
find
its
strength
in
the
service
of
day,
its
peace
in
the
union
of
night.
Life
sends
up
in
blades
of
grass
its
silent
hymn
of
praise
to
the
unnamed
Light.
The
stars
of
night
are
to
me
the
memorials
of
my
day's
faded
flowers.
Open
thy
door
to
that
which
must
go,
for
the
loss
becomes
unseemly
when
obstructed.
True
end
is
not
in
the
reaching
of
the
limit,
but
in
a
completion
which
is
limitless.
The
shore
whispers
to
the
sea:
"Write
to
me
what
thy
waves
struggle
to
say."
The
sea
writes
in
foam
again
and
again
and
wipes
off
the
lines
in
a
boisterous
despair.
Let
the
touch
ofthy
finger
thrill
my
life's
strings
and
make
the
music
thine
and
mine.
The
inner
world
rounded
in
my
life
like
a
fruit,
matured
in
joy
and
sorrow,
will
drop
into
the
darkness
of
the
orogonal
soil
for
some
further
course
of
creation.
Form
is
in
Matter,
rhythm
in
Force,
meaning
in
the
Person.
There
are
seekers
of
wisdom
and
seekers
of
wealth,
I
seek
thy
company
so
that
I
may
sing.
As
the
tree
its
leaves,
I
shed
my
words
on
the
earth,
let
my
thoughts
unuttered
flower
in
thy
silence.
My
faith
in
truth,
my
vision
of
the
perfect,
help
thee,
Master,
in
thy
creation.
All
the
delights
that
I
have
felt
in
life's
fruits
and
flowers
let
me
offer
to
thee
at
the
end
of
the
feast,
in
a
perfect
union
of
love.
Some
have
thought
deeply
and
explored
the
meaning
of
thy
truth,
and
they
are
great;
I
have
listened
to
catch
the
music
of
thy
play,
and
I
am
glad.
The
tree
is
a
winged
spirit
released
from
the
bondage
of
seed,
pursuing
its
adventure
of
life
across
the
unknown.
The
lotus
offers
its
beauty
to
the
heaven,
the
grass
its
service
to
the
earth.
The
sun's
kiss
mellows
into
abandonment
the
miserliness
of
the
green
fruit
clinging
to
its
stem.
The
flame
met
the
earthen
lamp
in
me,
and
what
a
great
marvel
of
light!
Mistakes
live
in
the
neighbourhood
of
truth
and
therefore
delude
us.
The
cloud
laughed
at
the
rainbow
saying
that
is
was
an
upstart
gaudy
in
its
emptiness.
The
rainbow
calmly
answered,
"I
am
as
inevitably
real
as
tha
sun
himself."
Let
me
not
grope
in
vain
in
the
dark
but
keep
my
mind
still
in
the
faith
that
the
day
will
break
and
truth
will
appear
in
its
simplicity.
Through
the
silent
night
I
hear
the
returning
vagrant
hopes
of
the
morning
knock
at
my
heart.
My
new
love
comes
bringing
to
me
the
eternal
wealth
of
the
old.
The
earth
gazes
at
the
moon
and
wonders
that
she
sould
have
all
her
music
in
her
smile.
Day
with
its
glare
of
curiosity
puts
the
stars
to
flight.
My
mind
has
itstrue
union
with
thee,
O
sky,
at
the
window
which
is
mine
own,
and
not
in
the
open
where
thou
hast
thy
sole
kingdom.
Man
claims
God's
flowers
as
his
own
when
he
weaves
them
in
a
garland.
The
buried
city,
laid
bare
to
the
sun
of
a
new
age,
is
ashamed
that
is
has
lost
all
its
song.
Like
my
heart's
pain
that
has
long
missed
its
meaning,
the
sun's
rays
robed
in
dark
hide
themselves
under
the
ground.
Like
my
heart'spain
at
love's
sudden
touch,
they
change
their
veil
at
the
spring's
call
and
come
out
in
the
carnival
of
colours,
in
flowers
and
leaves.
My
life's
empty
flute
waits
for
its
final
music
like
the
primal
darkness
before
the
stars
came
out.
Emancipation
from
the
bondage
of
the
soil
is
no
freedom
for
the
tree.
The
tapestry
of
life's
story
is
woven
with
the
threads
of
life's
ties
ever
joining
and
breaking.
Those
thoughts
of
mine
that
are
never
captured
by
words
perch
upon
my
song
and
dance.
My
soul
to-night
loses
itself
in
the
silent
heart
of
a
tree
standing
alone
among
the
whispers
of
immensity.
Pearl
shells
cast
up
by
the
sea
on
death's
barren
beach,—
a
magnificent
wastefulness
of
creative
life.
The
sunlight
opens
for
me
the
word's
gate,
love's
light
its
terasure.
My
life
like
the
reed
with
ist
stops,
has
its
play
od
colours
through
the
gaps
in
its
hopes
and
gains.
Let
not
my
thanks
to
thee
rob
my
silence
of
its
fuller
homage.
Life's
aspirations
come
in
the
guise
of
children.
The
faded
flower
sighs
that
the
spring
has
vanished
for
ever.
In
my
life's
garden
my
wealth
has
been
of
the
shadows
and
lights
that
are
never
gathered
and
stored.
The
fruit
that
I
Have
gained
for
ever
is
thet
which
thou
hast
accepted.
The
jasmine
knows
the
sun
to
be
her
brother
in
the
heaven.
Light
is
young,
the
ancient
light;
shadows
are
of
the
moment,
they
are
born
old.
I
feel
that
the
ferry
of
my
songs
at
the
day's
end
will
brong
me
across
to
the
other
shore
from
where
I
shall
see.
The
butterfly
flitting
from
flower
to
flower
ever
remains
mine,
I
lose
the
one
that
is
netted
by
me.
Your
voice,
free
bird,
reaches
my
sleeping
nest,
and
my
drowsy
wings
dream
of
a
voyage
to
the
light
above
the
clouds.
I
miss
the
meaning
of
my
own
part
in
the
play
of
life
because
I
know
not
of
the
parts
that
others
play.
The
flower
sheds
all
its
petals
and
finds
the
fruit.
I
leave
my
songs
behind
me
to
the
bloom
of
the
ever-returning
honeysuckles
and
the
joy
of
the
wind
from
the
south.
Dead
leaves
when
they
lose
themselves
in
soil
take
part
in
the
life
of
the
forest.
The
mind
ever
seeks
its
words
from
its
sounds
and
silence
as
the
sky
from
its
darkness
and
light.
The
unseen
dark
plays
on
his
flute
and
the
rhythm
of
light
eddies
into
stars
and
suns,
into
thoughts
and
reams.
My
songs
are
to
sing
that
I
have
loved
Thy
singing.
When
the
voice
of
the
Silent
touches
my
words
I
know
him
and
therefore
I
know
myself.
My
last
salutations
are
to
them
who
knew
me
imperfect
and
loved
me.
Love's
gift
cannot
be
given,
it
waits
to
be
accepted.
When
death
comes
and
whispers
to
me,
"Thy
days
are
ended,"
let
me
say
to
him,
"I
have
lived
in
love
and
not
in
mere
time."
He
will
ask,
"Will
thy
songs
remain?"
I
shall
say,
"I
know
not,
but
this
I
know
that
often
when
I
sang
I
found
my
eternity."
"Let
me
light
my
lamp,"
say
the
star,
'and
never
debate
if
it
will
help
to
remove
the
darkness."
Before
the
end
of
my
journey
may
I
reach
within
myself
the
one
which
is
the
all,
leaving
the
outer
shell
to
float
away
with
the
drifting
multitude
upon
the
current
of
chance
and
change.
Rabindranath Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore (born May 7, 1861, Calcutta [now Kolkata], India—died August 7, 1941, Calcutta) Bengali poet, short-story writer, song composer, playwright, essayist, and painter who introduced new prose and verse forms and the use of colloquial language into Bengali literature, thereby freeing it from traditional models based on classical Sanskrit. He was highly influential in introducing Indian culture to the West and vice versa, and he is generally regarded as the outstanding creative artist of early 20th-century India. In 1913 he became the first non-European to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature.