O my love, what gift of mine
Shall I give you this dawn?
A morning song?
But morning does not last long—
The heat of the sun
Wilts like a flower
And songs that tire
O friend, when you come to my gate.
What is it you ask?
What shall I bring you?
A lamp from a secret corner of my silent house?
But will you want to take it with you
Down the crowded street?
The wind will blow it out.
Whatever gifts are in my power to give you,
Be they flowers,
Be they gems for your neck
How can they please you
If in time they must surely wither,
All that my hands can place in yours
Will slip through your fingers
And fall forgotten to the dust
To turn into dust.
When you have leisure,
Wander idly through my garden in spring
And let an unknown, hidden flower’s scent startle you
Into sudden wondering—
Let that displaced moment
Be my gift.
Or if, as you peer your way down a shady avenue,
From the thick gathered tresses of evening
A single shivering fleck of sunset-light stops you,
Turns your daydreams to gold,
Let that light be an innocent
Truest treasure is fleeting;
It sparkles for a moment, then goes.
It does not tell its name; its tune
Stops us in our tracks, its dance disappears
At the toss of an anklet
I know no way to it—
No hand, nor word can reach it.
Friend, whatever you take of it,
On your own,
Without asking, without knowing, let that
Anything I can give you is trifling—
Be it a flower, or a song.
3 thoughts on ““Gift” by Rabindranath Tagore”
Love it! Reading Tagore never gets boring! Thank you so much for sharing, Chrsity.
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Oh thank you Archita. What a true Renaissance man Tagore was. I read he was writing poetry at 8 years old!
A gift for you. Note the year written. 😉
Who are you, reader, reading my poems a hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.
— The Gardener, 1915.
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Totally agree. 1915. I read those poems in the original language too (I had too. My mom is a big fan of Tagore), and his translations are equally great. Thank you so much for the Gardener; made my day! 🙂
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