শুনিয়াছি নিম্নে তব, হে বিশ্বপাথার,
নাহি অন্ত মহামূল্য মণিমুকুতার।
নিশিদিন দেশে দেশে পন্ডিত ডুবারি
রত রহিয়াছে কত অন্বেষণে তারি।
তাহে মোর নাহি লোভ মহাপারাবার!
যে আলোক জ্বলিতেছে উপরে তোমার,
যে রহস্য দুলিতেছে তব বক্ষতলে,
যে মহিমা প্রসারিত তব নীল জলে,
যে সংগীত উঠে তব নিয়ত আঘাতে,
যে বিচিত্র লীলা তব মহানৃত্যে মাতে,
এ জগতে কভু তার অন্ত যদি জানি,
চিরদিনে কভু তাহে শ্রান্তি যদি মানি,
তোমার অতলমাঝে ডুবিব তখন
যেথায় রতন আছে অথবা মরণ।

SHE IS OUR own, the darling of our hearts, Santiniketan.
Our dreams are rocked in her arms.
Her face is a fresh wonder of love every time we see her,
for she is our own, the darling of our hearts.
In the shadows of her trees we meet
in the freedom of her open sky.
Her mornings come and her evenings
bringing down heaven's kisses,
making us feel anew that she is our own, the darling of our hearts.
The stillness of her shades is stirred by the woodland whisper;
her amlaki groves are aquiver with the rapture of leaves.
She dwells in us and around us, however far we may wander.
She weaves our hearts in a song, making us one in music,
tuning our strings of love with her own fingers;
and we ever remember that she is our own, the darling of our hearts.

THE BATTLE is over. After strife and struggles the treasure is
gathered and stored.
Come now, woman, with your golden jar of beauty. Wash away all
dust and dirt, fill up all cracks and flaws, make the heap shapely and sound.
Come, beautiful woman, with the golden jar on your head.
The play is over. I have come to the village and have set up my
hearth stone.
Now come, woman, carrying your vessel of sacred water; with
tranquil smile and devout love, make my home pure.
Come, noble woman, with your vessel of sacred water.
The morning is over. The sun is fiercely burning. The wandering
stranger is seeking shelter.
Come, woman, with your full pitcher of sweetness. Open your door
and with a garland of welcome ask him in.
Come, blissful woman, with your full pitcher of sweetness.
The day is over. The time has come to take leave.
Come, O woman, with your vessel full of tears. Let your sad eyes
shed tender glow on the farewell path and the touch of thy
trembling hand make the parting hour full.
Come, sad woman, with your vessel of tears.
The night is dark; the house is desolate and the bed empty, only
the lamp for the last rites is burning.
Come, woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance. Open the
door of the secret chamber with your unbraided streaming
hair and spotless white robe, replenish the lamp of worship.
Come, suffering woman, bring your brimming jar of remembrance