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
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 earty sense with one fierce
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.
I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy
leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant,
and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They
called me and shouted, 'Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.' But I
languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou earnest. Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me; thy
voice was tired as thou spokest low - 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller.' I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came
from the bend of the road.
I stood speecess with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, what had I done
for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that I could give water to thee
to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.
Languor is upon your heart and the slumber is still on your eyes.
Has not the word come to you that the flower is reigning in splendour among thorns?
Wake, oh awaken! let not the time pass in vain!
At the end of the stony path, in the country of virgin solitude, my friend is sitting all
alone. Deceive him not. Wake, oh awaken!
What if the sky pants and trembles with the heat of the midday sun - what if the
burning sand spreads its mantle of thirst –
Is there no joy in the deep of your heart? At every footfall of yours, will not the harp of
the road break out in sweet music of pain?
Thus it is that thy joy in me is so full. Thus it is that thou hast come down to me. O
thou lord of all heavens, where would be thy love if I were not?
Thou hast taken me as thy partner of all this wealth. In my heart is the endless play of
thy delight. In my life thy will is ever taking shape.
And for this, thou who art the King of kings hast decked thyself in beauty to captivate
my heart. And for this thy love loses itself in the love of thy lover, and there art thou
seen in the perfect union of two. - Gitanjali