Poetry - Rabindranath Tagore

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Could I but entangle your feet with my heart and hold them fast to my breast!

       Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.

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      Lest I should know you too easily, you play with me.

       You blind me with flashes of laughter to hide your tears.

       I know, I know your art.

       You never say the word you would.

       Lest I should not prize you, you elude me in a thousand ways.

       Lest I should confuse you with the crowd, you stand aside.

       I know, I know your art,

       You never walk the path you would.

       Your claim is more than that of others, that is why you are silent.

       With playful carelessness you avoid my gifts.

       I know, I know your art,

       You never will take what you would.

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      He whispered, "My love, raise your eyes."

       I sharply chid him, and said "Go!"; but he did not stir.

       He stood before me and held both my hands.

       I said, "Leave me!"; but he did not go.

       He brought his face near my ear.

       I glanced at him and said,

       "What a shame!"; but he did not move.

       His lips touched my cheek.

       I trembled and said, "You dare too much;" but he had no shame.

       He put a flower in my hair.

       I said, "It is useless!"; but he stood unmoved.

       He took the garland from my neck and went away.

       I weep and ask my heart, "Why does he not come back?"

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      Would you put your wreath of fresh flowers on my neck, fair one?

       But you must know that the one wreath that I had woven is for the many, for those who are seen in glimpses, or dwell in lands unexplored, or live in poets' songs.

       It is too late to ask my heart in return for yours.

       There was a time when my life was like a bud, all its perfume was stored in its core.

       Now it is squandered far and wide.

       Who knows the enchantment that can gather and shut it up again?

       My heart is not mine to give to one only, it is given to the many.

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      My love, once upon a time your poet launched a great epic in his mind.

       Alas, I was not careful, and it struck your ringing anklets and came to grief.

       It broke up into scraps of songs and lay scattered at your feet.

       All my cargo of the stories of old wars was tossed by the laughing waves and soaked in tears and sank.

       You must make this loss good to me, my love.

       If my claims to immortal fame after death are shattered, make me immortal while I live.

       And I will not mourn for my loss nor blame you.

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      I try to weave a 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.

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      An unbelieving smile flits on your eyes when I come to you to take my leave.

       I have done it so often that you think I will soon return.

       To tell you the truth I have the same doubt in my mind.

       For the spring days come again time after time; the full moon takes leave and comes on another visit, the flowers come again and blush upon their branches year after year, and it is likely that I take my leave only to come to you again.

       But keep the illusion awhile; do not send it away with ungentle haste.

       When I say I leave you for all time, accept it as true, and let a mist of tears for one moment deepen the dark rim of your eyes.

       Then smile as archly as you like when I come again.

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      I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I dare not, for fear you should laugh.

       That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.

       I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

       I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.

       That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of what I mean.

       I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

       I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare not, fearing I should not be paid with like value.

       That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous strength.

       I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

       I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come out at my lips.

       That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart behind words.

       I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

       I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my cowardice should become known to you.

       That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your presence.

       Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.

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