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    The Fugitive and Other Poems: And Other Poems
    The Fugitive and Other Poems: And Other Poems
    The Fugitive and Other Poems: And Other Poems
    Ebook160 pages51 minutes

    The Fugitive and Other Poems: And Other Poems

    By Rabindranath Tagore

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    About this ebook

    The first non-Western writer to win the Nobel Prize in Literature Rabindranath Tagore was the literary voice of India. ‘The Fugitive’ is an excellent example of his work, featuring six stories and several spiritual songs.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWilder Publications, Inc.
    Release dateNov 28, 2014
    ISBN9781633845763
    The Fugitive and Other Poems: And Other Poems
    Author

    Rabindranath Tagore

    Rabindranath Tagore was born in May 1861. He was a Bengali poet, Brahmo Samaj philosopher, visual artist, playwright, novelist, and composer whose works reshaped Bengali literature and music in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He became Asia's first Nobel laureate when he won the 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature. His works included numerous novels, short-stories, collection of songs, dance-drama, political and personal essays. Some prominent examples are Gitanjali (Song Offerings) , Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World). He died on 7th August 1941.

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      Book preview

      The Fugitive and Other Poems - Rabindranath Tagore

      The Fugitive

      and Other Poems

      by Rabindranath Tagore

      ©Sublime Books 2014

      All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

      Sublime Books

      PO Box 632

      Floyd, VA 24091

      ISBN 13: 978-1-63384-576-3

      First Sublime Edition

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Table of Contents

      The Fugitive

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      18

      19

      Kacha and Devayani

      1

      2

      3

      4

      Translations: Vaishnava Songs

      I

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      II

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      18

      19

      20

      21

      22

      23

      24

      25

      26

      27

      28

      Ama and Vinayaka

      1

      2

      3

      The Mother’s Prayer

      1

      2

      Translations: Baul Songs

      I

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      II

      1

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      14

      15

      16

      17

      18

      19

      20

      21

      22

      23

      24

      Somaka And Ritvik

      1

      2

      3

      Karna and Kunti

      2

      3

      4

      5

      6

      7

      8

      9

      10

      Translations from Hindi Songs of Jnanadas

      1

      2

      3

      The Fugitive

      1

      Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnant space frets into eddying bubbles of light.

      Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across his immeasurable loneliness?

      Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangled tresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path as from a broken necklace?

      Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweeping aside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes the sacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth.

      Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumble into a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the least speck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with an unbearable pressure.

      My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which the anklets of light are shaken.

      They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalm of the ancient sea.

      I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings and songs.

      The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire, my heart!

      Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towards limitless light.

      2

      We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads I stop to bid you farewell.

      Your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by ways from the unknown.

      I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the stars to where day breaks behind the hills; I shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their days into a wreath on a single thread of song, I love.

      3

      It was growing dark when I asked her, What strange land have I come to?

      She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar, as she walked away.

      The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though it already belonged to the past.

      The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles against the water-jar from down the lane.

      Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree,—for I love the look of this land.

      The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of the marble landing haunts the dark water.

      Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered into the darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlet tinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down the lane littered with leaves.

      The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town hums wearily.

      Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.

      Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, where darkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against a water-jar.

      4

      O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds—a secret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.

      O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees that doze in the sun.

      The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for the cause of my tears.

      I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld from me.

      5

      For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way; wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted in mist.

      Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road, where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate water heaves in the troubled sea.

      Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it be stripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.

      6

      Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody that metaphor, Flowers are the footprints of summer.

      They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to be erased by a passing breeze.

      Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave the everlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.

      7

      I am like the night to you, little flower.

      I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.

      When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall

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