WHEN MY first early songs woke in my heart I thought they were the playmates of the morning flowers.
When they shook their wings and flew into the wilderness it seemed to me that they had the spirit of the summer which comes down with a sudden thunder roar to spend its all in laughter.
I thought that they had the mad call of the storm to rush and lose their way beyond the sunset land.
But now when in the evening light I see the blue line of the shore,
I know my songs are the boat that has brought me to the harbour across the wild sea.

TIRED OF waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive jasmines, troops of riotous roses.
You were the first to march to the breach of death, your clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in heaps.
The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the floodtide of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible joy of faith.
You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim you.

     যে-বসন্ত একদিন করেছিল কত কোলাহল
              লয়ে দলবল
          আমার প্রাঙ্গণতলে কলহাস্য তুলে
          দাড়িম্বে পলাশগুচ্ছে কাঞ্চনে পারুলে;
              নবীন পল্লবে বনে বনে
     বিহ্বল করিয়াছিল নীলাম্বর রক্তিম চুম্বনে;
          সে আজ নিঃশব্দে আসে আমার নির্জনে;
               অনিমেষে
              নিস্তব্ধ বসিয়া থাকে নিভৃত ঘরের প্রান্তদেশে
                        চাহি সেই দিগন্তের পানে
          শ্যামশ্রী মূর্ছিত হয়ে নীলিমায় মরিছে যেখানে।