LET THE LINKS of my shackles snap at every step of thy dance, O Lord of Dancing, and let my heart wake in the freedom of the eternal voice. Let it feel the touch of that foot that ever sets swinging the lotus-seat of the muse, and with its perfume maddens the air through ages. Rebellious atoms are subdued into forms at thy dance-time, the suns and planets,anklets of light,twirl round thy moving feet, and, age after age. Things struggle to wake from dark slumber, through pain of life, into consciousness, and the ocean of thy bliss breaks out in tumults of suffering and joy. Before I leave, tinge my heart in secret with thine own colour, the colour of the young smile, of tears shaded with ancient sadness. Let it tinge my thoughts, my deeds, the flame of my evening lamp, the waking moment of my midnight. Before I leave, rouse my heart with the swing of thy dancing feet, the swing that wakens stars in the deep of night, frees the stream from the rocky cave, gives voice to clouds in thunder and rain, the swing by which the balance in the centre of existence is swayed in endless cycles of movement.
SULLEN CLOUDS are gathering fast over the black fringe of the forest. O child, do not go out! The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads against the dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river is haunted by a deepening gloom. Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence. O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall. Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rainwater is running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run away from his mother to tease her. Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford. O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed. The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers. The evening lamps must be made ready. O child, do not go out! The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.
