Gitanjali — Song 52
Gitanjali — Song 52
Rabindranath Tagore
I thought I should ask of thee—but I dared not—the rose wreath thou
hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou didst
depart, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I
searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.
Ah me, what is it I find? What token left of thy love? It is no flower,
no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword, flashing
as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning
comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning
bird twitters and asks, “Woman, what hast thou got?” No, it is no
flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water—it is thy dreadful
sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine. I can find no
place to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts
me when I press it to my bosom. Yet shall I bear in my heart this
honour of the burden of pain, this gift of thine.
From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and thou
shalt be victorious in all my strife. Thou hast left death for my
companion and I shall crown him with my life. Thy sword is with me to
cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the
world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations. Lord of my heart, no more
shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness
and sweetness of demeanour. Thou hast given me thy sword for adornment.
No more doll’s decorations for me!
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Complete 103-poem English Gitanjali, translated by the author and published in 1912. · Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
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