ENTANGLED IN the meshes woven by countless gazing eyes,
he is drawn into a whirl of noise,
the man of fame.
Alas, he has lost his rank among those
who are privileged to remain unaware of the date of their birth,
whose recognition in the world is slight,
even as the leaves are that lightly swing on the branches
and drop on the dust unnoticed.
He lives in his solitary cell among the crowd
with a chain of honour ever jangling round his limbs.
Take pity and free him
in the world of cool light, green shade and sweet reticence,
in the unbounded dust,
the primeval playground of the eternal child.
When the ferry boat from the dark
brought him to the landing on the shore of fresh knowledge,
he had nothing to cover him from the light
that touched his nakedness
as it touches the sail unfurled in the air.
In the simple freedom-of that morning
flowers without fame bloomed in the grass,
and the spring hour spread its golden wings,
in an immensity of leisure.
In that holiday's solitude
his name received its infinite worth from a sweet voice
whose far-away music makes him wistful
in the languorous afternoon of March
and whose date is lettered today
in this glistening quiver of asath leaves.
He had his poet's welcome from the river Padma
and the morning star through the intervals of bamboo leaves on her bank.
The dark masses of cloud had spread before him
a purple shadow on the distant rain-dimmed forest;
his eyes had followed the track of noisy girls to the river
along the shady village lane
and enjoyed the duet of colours under the sunset sky
in the blossoming field of mustard and linseed sown together.
He gazed and said, 'I love it',
and wished that this love of his remained behind him,
even when his big endeavours had come to nothing,
and that his salutation carrying his life-long wonder
should leave a lasting memory of his touch
on the dust of his earth.

YOU HAVE watched all night alone, your eyes are tired, sweet one!
The light of the lamp has paled, it flickers in the breeze of the dawn.
Wipe away your tears, my friend, and draw up the veil over your breast.
The autumn morning is still, the smell of the woods is in the
air, the grassy path is caressingly tender.
Let the wreath of the forlorn night lie crumpled upon the bed.
Come out in the world of the morning, gather fresh flowers in
your skirt and put on new blossoms in your hair.

WHILE GOD waits for His temple to be built of love,
men bring stones.