by Rabindranath Tagore

舞者

by Rabindranath Tagore

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When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.

There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.

Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.

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You were in the center of my heart, therefore when my heart wandered she never found you; you hid yourself from my loves and hopes till the last, for you were always in them.

You were the innermost joy in the play of my youth, and when I was too busy with the play the joy was passed by.

You sang to me in the ecstasies of my life and I forgot to sing to you.

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Not for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to waste.

Send me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars.

Send me the love that would soak down into the center of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and flowers.

Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fulness of peace.

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Let me not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them.
Let me not beg for the stilling of my pain but for the heart to conquer it.
Let me not look for allies in life's battlefield but to my own strength.
Let me not crave in anxious fear to be saved but hope for the patience to win my freedom.

Grant me that I may not be a coward, feeling your mercy in my success alone; but let me find the grasp of your hand in my failure.

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Keep me at your door ever attending to your wishes, and let me go about your Kingdom accepting your call.

Let me not sink and disappear in the depth of languor.
Let not my life be worn out to tatters by penury of waste.

Let not those doubts encompass me, --the dust of distractions.
Let me not pursue many paths to gather many things.

Let me not bend my heart to the yoke of the many.
Let me hold my head high in the courage and pride of being your servant.

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Come to my garden walk, my love.
Pass by the fervid flowers that
press themselves on your sight.
Pass them by, stopping at some chance joy,
which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet elude.
For lover's gift is shy,
it never tells its name,
it flits across the shade,
spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.
Overtake it or miss it forever.
But a gift that can be grasped is merely a frail flower,
or a lamp with flame that will flicker.