The Poet's Notebook

ACROSS the illimitable hush of time
rings the march music of man.
Let not my to-day leave its tattered remnants
to narrow the passage of my to-morrow.
This morning I have my singer’s errand
to the birthday feast of the honeysuckle.
Others must wait.
I am the south wind that do not claim honey from the flower,
but only its faint timid whisper.
While I was traveling towards you
Time was torturing its lute strings into tunes.
Its music comes when you are reached.
In your kiss, my love,
all my to-morrows merge in an endless to-day.
My songs are to own my debt
to the priceless hours.
Love tells me that death is some misunderstanding of life.
Life is a constellation,
an unplumbed dark strewn with starry moments.
The vast silence breathlessly waits through the night
for the flutter of wings in a little bird’s nest.
My heart waits for love
as the blank page for the living line.
I ever wonder when I am before thee
why I was not made like a forest
that opens its heart in flowers,
like a star in its speech of flame.
I have loved you and I know
what is truth when it is seen.
Why go through life like a child who turns the pages of a book
and believes that this is reading?
The perfect doll is materially cheap, outwardly simple, essentially delightful.

The civilized doll counts its cost, is proud of its pose and forgets its play.
I make toys for Time, which, like a child, fondly handles them,
breaks them and carelessly forgets.
May the desolate ghost of the forgotten
cease crying to find back its body.
Echo, the ghost, is more dead than the dead voice,
for it is unreal.
Tiredness comes as a bride to the unyielding strength
to kiss it into a surrender.
Let me own my defeat to thee, my sweet,
and win thee in return.
The brooding blue of the sky listens to the babbling blue of the earth
in her sea.
My farewell hour stands before thee, beloved,
with its last lingering light and silent shadows.
RABINDRANATH TAGORE