1

SERVANT.  Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!

QUEEN.  The assembly is over and my servants are all gone.  Why
   do you come at this late hour?

SERVANT.  When you have finished with others, that is my time.
I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.

QUEEN.  What can you expect when it is too late?

SERVANT.  Make me the gardener of your flower garden.

QUEEN.  What folly is this?

SERVANT.  I will give up my other work.
I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust.  Do not send
   me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests.
   But make me the gardener of your flower garden.

QUEEN.  What will your duties be?

SERVANT.  The service of your idle days.
I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning,
   where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by
   the flowers eager for death.
I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the
   saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle
   to kiss your skirt through the leaves.
I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your
   bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron
   paste in wondrous designs.

QUEEN.  What will you have for your reward?

SERVANT.  To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender
   lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge
   the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka   petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to
   linger there.

QUEEN.  Your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be the
   gardener of my flower garden.

2

"Ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey.
"Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?"

"It is evening," the poet said, "and I am listening because some
   one may call from the village, late though it be.
"I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs of
   eager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak for
   them.
"Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on the
   shore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?

"The early evening star disappears.
"The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.
"Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house
   in the light of the worn-out moon.
"If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and
   with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is
   there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I,
   shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?

"It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey.
"I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of
   this village.
"Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in
   their eyes.
"Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears
   that are hidden in the gloom.
They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the
   afterlife.
"I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?"

3

In the morning I cast my net into the sea.
I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and
   strange beauty—some shone like a smile, some glistened like
   tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride.
When with the day's burden I went home, my love was sitting in
   the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower.
I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I
   had dragged up, and stood silent.
She glanced at them and said, "What strange things are these?  I
   know not of what use they are!"
I bowed my head in shame and thought, "I have not fought for
   these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts
   for her."
Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the
   street.
In the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried
   them into far countries.

4

Ah me, why did they build my house by the road to the market
   town?
They moor their laden boats near my trees.
They come and go and wander at their will.
I sit and watch them; my time wears on.
Turn them away I cannot.  And thus my days pass by.

Night and day their steps sound by my door.
Vainly I cry, "I do not know you."
Some of them are known to my fingers, some to my nostrils, the
   blood in my veins seems to know them, and some are known to my
   dreams.
Turn them away I cannot.  I call them and say, "Come to my house
   whoever chooses.  Yes, come."

In the morning the bell rings in the temple.
They come with their baskets in their hands.
Their feet are rosy red.  The early light of dawn is on their
   faces.
Turn them away I cannot.  I call them and I say, "Come to my
   garden to gather flowers.  Come hither."

In the mid-day the gong sounds at the palace gate.
I know not why they leave their work and linger near my hedge.
The flowers in their hair are pale and faded; the notes are
   languid in their flutes.
Turn them away I cannot.  I call them and say, "The shade is cool
   under my trees.  Come, friends."

At night the crickets chirp in the woods.
Who is it that comes slowly to my door and gently knocks?
I vaguely see the face, not a word is spoken, the stillness of
   the sky is all around.
Turn away my silent guest I cannot.  I look at the face through
   the dark, and hours of dreams pass by.

5

I am restless.  I am athirst for far-away things.
My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim
   distance.
O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am
   bound in this spot evermore.

I am eager and wakeful, I am a stranger in a strange land.
Thy breath comes to me whispering an impossible hope.
Thy tongue is known to my heart as its very own.
O Far-to-seek, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that I know not the way, that I have not
   the winged horse.

I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine
   takes shape in the blue of the sky!
O Farthest end, O the keen call of thy flute!
I forget, I ever forget, that the gates are shut everywhere in
   the house where I dwell alone!

6

The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to wood."
The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the
   cage."
Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread
   one's wings?"
"Alas," cries the cage bird, "I should not know where to sit
   perched in the sky."

The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the
   woodlands."
The cage bird says, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of
   the learned."
The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught."
The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the
   woodlands."

Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing
   to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to
   know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my
   love!"
The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of
   the cage."
The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead."

7

O mother, the young Prince is to pass by our door,—how can I
   attend to my work this morning?
Show me how to braid up my hair; tell me what garment to put on.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he will not glance up once at my window; I know he
   will pass out of my sight in the twinkling of an eye; only the
   vanishing strain of the flute will come sobbing to me from
   afar.
But the young Prince will pass by our door, and I will put on my
   best for the moment.

O mother, the young Prince did pass by our door, and the morning
   sun flashed from his chariot.
I swept aside the veil from my face, I tore the ruby chain from
   my neck and flung it in his path.
Why do you look at me amazed, mother?
I know well he did not pick up my chain; I know it was crushed
   under his wheels leaving a red stain upon the dust, and no one
   knows what my gift was nor to whom.
But the young Prince did pass by our door, and I flung the jewel
   from my breast before his path.

8

When the lamp went out by my bed I woke up with the early birds.
I sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair.
The young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the
   morning.
A pearl chain was on his neck, and the sun's rays fell on his
   crown.  He stopped before my door and asked me with an eager
   cry, "Where is she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, young traveller, she
   is I."

It was dusk and the lamp was not lit.
I was listlessly braiding my hair.
The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the
   setting sun.
His horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his
   garment.
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, "Where is
   she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, weary traveller, she
   is I."

It is an April night.  The lamp is burning in my room.
The breeze of the south comes gently.  The noisy parrot sleeps in
   its cage.
My bodice is of the colour of the peacock's throat, and my mantle
   is green as young grass.
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street.
Through the dark night I keep humming, "She is I, despairing
   traveller, she is I."

9

When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the
   wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street
   stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am
   ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do
   not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river
   like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly—I do not know how to quiet
   it.

When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and
   my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the
   lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light.  I
   do not know how to hide it.

10

Let your work be, bride.  Listen, the guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the
   door?
See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is
   not over-hurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening.

No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the
   courtyard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the
   door if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.

Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door
   when you meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your
   eyes in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him
   in.
Have no word with him if you are shy.

Have you not finished your work yet, bride?  Listen, the guest
   has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening
   service?
Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair,
   and done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has come?
Let your work be!

11

Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be
   not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do
   not mind.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

Come, with quick steps over the grass.
If the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the
   rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of
   your chain, do not mind.
Come with quick steps over the grass.

Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
Flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful
   gusts of wind rush over the heath.
The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?

In vain you light your toilet lamp—it flickers and goes out in
   the wind.
Who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lamp-
   black?  For your eyes are darker than rain-clouds.
In vain you light your toilet lamp—it goes out.

Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not
   been linked, let it be.
The sky is overcast with clouds—it is late.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

12

If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my
   lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds
   hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair
   above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my
   heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.

If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float
   on the water, come, O come to my lake.
The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from
   their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.

If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O
   come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover
   you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in
   your ears.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.

If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my
   lake.
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are
   silence.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.

13

I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the
   tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the
   air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the
   earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands,
   tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.

I did not say a word.  It was the bird that sang unseen from the
   thicket.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road,
   and the bees came humming one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was
   opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I stood with my empty can.

I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven
   cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the
   river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.

14

I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday
   was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet
   of the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why.

The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging
   tree.
Some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in
   the corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not why.

The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a
   mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the
   river landing place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.

Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the
   spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the
   dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood
   on the landing step.
I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.

Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are
   waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

15

I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with
   his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of
   the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what
   I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

16

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
   record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna   is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your
   garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like
   praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
   again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet
   useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
   shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
   raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
   wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

17

The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with
   gladness.
We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of
   joy.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden
   trees.
If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
   river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

Only one field lies between us.
Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.
Flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the
   stream where we bathe.
Baskets of dried kusm flowers come from their fields to
   our market.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
   river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

The lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with
   mango flowers.
When their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in
   our field.
The stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling
   look.
The rain that floods their tank makes glad our kadam   forest.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
   river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.

18

When the two sisters go to fetch water, they come to this spot
   and they smile.
They must be aware of somebody who stands behind the trees
   whenever they go to fetch water.

The two sisters whisper to each other when they pass this spot.
They must have guessed the secret of that somebody who stands
   behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

Their pitchers lurch suddenly, and water spills when they reach
   this spot.
They must have found out that somebody's heart is beating who
   stands behind the trees whenever they go to fetch water.

The two sisters glance at each other when they come to this spot,
   and they smile.
There is a laughter in their swift-stepping feet, which makes
   confusion in somebody's mind who stands behind the trees
   whenever they go to fetch water.

19

You walked by the riverside path with the full pitcher upon your
   hip.
Why did you swiftly turn your face and peep at me through your
   fluttering veil?
That gleaming look from the dark came upon me like a breeze that
   sends a shiver through the rippling water and sweeps away to
   the shadowy shore.
It came to me like the bird of the evening that hurriedly flies
   across the lampless room from the one open window to the other,
   and disappears in the night.
You are hidden as a star behind the hills, and I am a passer-by
   upon the road.
But why did you stop for a moment and glance at my face through
   your veil while you walked by the riverside path with the full
   pitcher upon your hip?

20

Day after day he comes and goes away.
Go, and give him a flower from my hair, my friend.
If he asks who was it that sent it, I entreat you do not tell him
   my name—for he only comes and goes away.

He sits on the dust under the tree.
Spread there a seat with flowers and leaves, my friend.
His eyes are sad, and they bring sadness to my heart.
He does not speak what he has in mind; he only comes and goes
   away.

21

Why did he choose to come to my door, the wandering youth, when
   the day dawned?
As I come in and out I pass by him every time, and my eyes are
   caught by his face.
I know not if I should speak to him or keep silent.  Why did he
   choose to come to my door?

The cloudy nights in July are dark; the sky is soft blue in the
   autumn; the spring days are restless with the south wind.
He weaves his songs with fresh tunes every time.
I turn from my work and my eyes fill with the mist.  Why did he
   choose to come to my door?

22

When she passed by me with quick steps, the end of her skirt
   touched me.
From the unknown island of a heart came a sudden warm breath of
   spring.
A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me and vanished in a
   moment, like a torn flower petal blown in the breeze.
It fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body and whisper of her
   heart.

23

Why do you sit there and jingle your bracelets in mere idle
   sport?
Fill your pitcher.  It is time for you to come home.

Why do you stir the water with your hands and fitfully glance at
   the road for some one in mere idle sport?
Fill your pitcher and come home.

The morning hours pass by—the dark water flows on.
The waves are laughing and whispering to each other in mere idle
   sport.

The wandering clouds have gathered at the edge of the sky on
   yonder rise of the land.
They linger and look at your face and smile in mere idle sport.
Fill your pitcher and come home.

24

Do not keep to yourself the secret of your heart, my friend!
Say it to me, only to me, in secret.
You who smile so gently, softly whisper, my heart will hear it,
   not my ears.

The night is deep, the house is silent, the birds' nests are
   shrouded with sleep.
Speak to me through hesitating tears, through faltering smiles,
   through sweet shame and pain, the secret of your heart!

25

"Come to us, youth, tell us truly why there is madness in your
   eyes?"
"I know not what wine of wild poppy I have drunk, that there is
   this madness in my eyes."
"Ah, shame!"
"Well, some are wise and some foolish, some are watchful and some
   careless.  There are eyes that smile and eyes that weep—and
   madness is in my eyes."

"Youth, why do you stand so still under the shadow of the tree?"
"My feet are languid with the burden of my heart, and I stand
   still in the shadow."
"Ah, shame!"
"Well, some march on their way and some linger, some are free and
   some are fettered—and my feet are languid with the burden of
   my heart."

26

"What comes from your willing hands I take.  I beg for nothing
   more."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
   has."

"If there be a stray flower for me I will wear it in my heart."
"But if there be thorns?"
"I will endure them."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
   has."

"If but once you should raise your loving eyes to my face it
   would make my life sweet beyond death."
"But if there by only cruel glances?"
"I will keep them piercing my heart."
"Yes, yes, I know you, modest mendicant, you ask for all that one
   has."

27

"Trust love even if it brings sorrow.  Do not close up your
   heart."
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
   them."

"The heart is only for giving away with a tear and a song, my
   love."
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
   them."

"Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies.  But
   sorrow is strong and abiding.  Let sorrowful love wake in your
   eyes."
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
   them."

"The lotus blooms in the sight of the sun, and loses all that it
   has.  It would not remain in bud in the eternal winter mist."
"Ah no, my friend, your words are dark, I cannot understand
   them."

28

Your questioning eyes are sad.  They seek to know my meaning as
   the moon would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your eyes from end to end, with
   nothing hidden or held back.  That is why you know me not.
If it were only a gem I could break it into a hundred pieces and
   string them into a chain to put on your neck.
If it were only a flower, round and small and sweet, I could
   pluck it from its stem to set it in your hair.
But it is a heart, my beloved.  Where are its shores and its
   bottom?
You know not the limits of this kingdom, still you are its queen.
If it were only a moment of pleasure it would flower in an easy
   smile, and you could see it and read it in a moment.
If it were merely a pain it would melt in limpid tears,
  reflecting its inmost secret without a word.
But it is love, my beloved.
Its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and
   wealth.
It is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know
   it.

29

Speak to me, my love!  Tell me in words what you sang.
The night is dark.  The stars are lost in clouds.  The wind is
   sighing through the leaves.
I will let loose my hair.  My blue cloak will cling round me like
   night.  I will clasp your head to my bosom; and there in the
   sweet loneliness murmur on your heart.  I will shut my eyes and
   listen.  I will not look in your face.
When your words are ended, we will sit still and silent.  Only
   the trees will whisper in the dark.
The night will pale.  The day will dawn.  We shall look at each
   other's eyes and go on our different paths.
Speak to me, my love!  Tell me in words what you sang.

30

You are the evening cloud floating in the sky of my dreams.
I paint you and fashion you ever with my love longings.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my endless dreams!

Your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my heart's desire,
   Gleaner of my sunset songs!
Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my lonesome dreams!

With the shadow of my passion have I darkened your eyes, Haunter
   of the depth of my gaze!
I have caught you and wrapt you, my love, in the net of my music.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my deathless dreams!

31

My heart, the bird of the wilderness, has found its sky in your
   eyes.
They are the cradle of the morning, they are the kingdom of the
   stars.
My songs are lost in their depths.
Let me but soar in that sky, in its lonely immensity.
Let me but cleave its clouds and spread wings in its sunshine.

32

Tell me if this be all true, my lover, tell me if this be true.
When these eyes flash their lightning the dark clouds in your
   breast make stormy answer.
Is it true that my lips are sweet like the opening bud of the
   first conscious love?
Do the memories of vanished months of May linger in my limbs?
Does the earth, like a harp, shiver into songs with the touch of
   my feet?
Is it then true that the dewdrops fall from the eyes of night
   when I am seen, and the morning light is glad when it wraps my
   body round?
Is it true, is it true, that your love travelled alone through
   ages and worlds in search of me?
That when you found me at last, your age-long desire found utter
   peace in my gentle speech and my eyes and lips and flowing
   hair?
Is it then true that the mystery of the Infinite is written on
   this little forehead of mine?
Tell me, my lover, if all this be true.

33

I love you, beloved.  Forgive me my love.
Like a bird losing its way I am caught.
When my heart was shaken it lost its veil and was naked.  Cover
   it with pity, beloved, and forgive me my love.

If you cannot love me, beloved, forgive me my pain.
Do not look askance at me from afar.
I will steal back to my corner and sit in the dark.
With both hands I will cover my naked shame.
Turn your face from me, beloved, and forgive me my pain.

If you love me, beloved, forgive me my joy.
When my heart is borne away by the flood of happiness, do not
   smile at my perilous abandonment.
When I sit on my throne and rule you with my tyranny of love,
   when like a goddess I grant you my favour, bear with my pride,
   beloved, and forgive me my joy.

34

Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.
I have watched all night, and now my eyes are heavy with sleep.
I fear lest I lose you when I am sleeping.
Do not go, my love, without asking my leave.

I start up and stretch my hands to touch you.  I ask myself, "Is
   it a dream?"
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.

35

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.

36

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?"

37

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.

38

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.

39

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.

40

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.

41

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.

42

O mad, superbly drunk;
If you kick open your doors and play the fool in public;
If you empty your bag in a night, and snap your fingers at
   prudence;
If you walk in curious paths and play with useless things;
Reck not rhyme or reason;
If unfurling your sails before the storm you snap the rudder in
   two,
Then I will follow you, comrade, and be drunken and go to the
   dogs.

I have wasted my days and nights in the company of steady wise
   neighbours.
Much knowing has turned my hair grey, and much watching has made
   my sight dim.
For years I have gathered and heaped up scraps and fragments of
   things;
Crush them and dance upon them, and scatter them all to the
   winds.
For I know 'tis the height of wisdom to be drunken and go to the
   dogs.

Let all crooked scruples vanish, let me hopelessly lose my way.
Let a gust of wild giddiness come and sweep me away from my
   anchors.
The world is peopled with worthies, and workers, useful and
   clever.
There are men who are easily first, and men who come decently
   after.
Let them be happy and prosper, and let me be foolishly futile.
For I know 'tis the end of all works to be drunken and go to the
   dogs.

I swear to surrender this moment all claims to the ranks of the
   decent.
I let go my pride of learning and judgment of right and of wrong.
I'll shatter memory's vessel, scattering the last drop of tears.
With the foam of the berry-red wine I will bathe and brighten my
   laughter.
The badge of the civil and staid I'll tear into shreds for the
   nonce.
I'll take the holy vow to be worthless, to be drunken and go to
   the dogs.

43

No, my friends, I shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may say.
I shall never be an ascetic if she does not take the vow with me.
It is my firm resolve that if I cannot find a shady shelter and a
   companion for my penance, I shall never turn ascetic.

No, my friends, I shall never leave my hearth and home, and
   retire into the forest solitude, if rings no merry laughter in
   its echoing shade and if the end of no saffron mantle flutters
   in the wind; if its silence is not deepened by soft whispers.
I shall never be an ascetic.