70
Is it beyond thee to be glad with the gladness of this rhythm？ to betossed and lost and broken in the whirl of this fearful joy？

All things rush on， they sTOP not， they look not behind， no power can

hold them back， they rush on.

Keeping steps with that restless， rapid music， seasons come dancing

and pass awaycolours， tunes1， and perfumes pour in endless cascades3

in the abounding4 joy that scatters5 and gives up and dies every moment.

71

That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides， thus

casting coloured shadows on thy radiancesuch is thy maya.

Thou settest a barrier in thine own being and then callest thy severed6

self in myriad7 notes. This thy self-separation has taken body in me.

The poignant8 song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloured tears

and smiles， alarms and hopes； waves rise up and sink again， dreams

break and form. In me is thy own defeat of self.

This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures

with the brush of the night and the day. Behind it thy seat is woven

in wondrous9 mysteries of curves， casting away all barren lines of

straightness.

The great pageant10 of thee and me has overspread the sky. With the tune2

of thee and me all the air is vibrant11， and all ages pass with the

hiding and seeking of thee and me.

72

He it is， the innermost one， who awakens12 my being with his deep hidden

touches.

He it is who puts his enchantment13 upon these eyes and joyfully14 plays

on the chords of my heart in varied15 cadence16 of pleasure and pain.

He it is who weaves the web of this {\it maya\/} in evanescent hues17 of

gold and silver， blue and green， and lets peep out through the folds

his feet， at whose touch I forget myself.

Days come and ages pass， and it is ever he who moves my heart in many

a name， in many a guise18， in many a rapture19 of joy and of sorrow.

73

Deliverance is not for me in renunciation. I feel the embrace of

freedom in a thousand bonds of delight.

Thou ever pourest for me the fresh draught20 of thy wine of various

colours and fragrance21， filling this earthen vessel22 to the brim.

My world will light its hundred different lamps with thy flame and

place them before the altar of thy temple.

No， I will never shut the doors of my senses. The delights of sight

and hearing and touch will bear thy delight.

Yes， all my illusions will burn into illumination of joy， and all my

desires ripen23 into fruits of love.

74

The day is no more， the shadow is upon the earth. It is time that I go

to the stream to fill my pitcher24.

The evening air is eager with the sad music of the water. Ah， it calls

me out into the dusk. In the lonely lane there is no passer-by， the

wind is up， the ripples25 are rampant26 in the river.

I know not if I shall come back home. I know not whom I shall chance

to meet. There at the fording in the little boat the unknown man plays

upon his lute27.

75

Thy gifts to us mortals fulfil all our needs and yet run back to thee

undiminished.

The river has its everyday work to do and hastens through fields and

hamlets； yet its incessant28 stream winds towards the washing of thy

feet.

The flower sweetens the air with its perfume； yet its last service is

to offer itself to thee.

Thy worship does not impoverish29 the world.

From the words of the poet men take what meanings please them； yet

their last meaning points to thee.

76

Day after day， O lord of my life， shall I stand before thee face to

face.

With folded hands， O lord of all worlds， shall I stand before thee

face to face.

Under thy great sky in solitude30 and silence， with humble31 heart shall I

stand before thee face to face.

In this laborious32 world of thine， tumultuous with toil33 and with

struggle， among hurrying crowds shall I stand before thee face to

face.

And when my work shall be done in this world， O King of kings， alone

and speechless shall I stand before thee face to face.

77

I know thee as my God and stand apartI do not know thee as my own

and come closer. I know thee as my father and bow before thy feetI

do not grasp thy hand as my friend's.

I stand not where thou comest down and ownest thyself as mine， there

to clasp thee to my heart and take thee as my comrade.

Thou art the Brother amongst my brothers， but I heed34 them not， I

pide not my earnings35 with them， thus sharing my all with thee.

In pleasure and in pain I stand not by the side of men， and thus stand

by thee. I shrink to give up my life， and thus do not plunge36 into the

great waters of life.

78

When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first

splendour， the gods held their as百度競(jìng)價(jià)推廣bly in the sky and sang `Oh， the

picture of perfection！ the joy unalloyed！'

But one cried of a sudden`It seems that somewhere there is a break

in the chain of light and one of the stars has been lost.'

The golden string of their harp37 snapped， their song sTOPped， and they

cried in dismay`Yes， that lost star was the best， she was the glory

of all heavens！'

From that day the search is unceasing for her， and the cry goes on

from one to the other that in her the world has lost its one joy！

only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile and whisper among

themselves`Vain is this seeking！ unbroken perfection is over all！'

79

If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life then let me ever

feel that I have missed thy sightlet me not forget for a moment，

let me carry the pangs38 of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful

hours.

As my days pass in the crowded market of this world and my hands grow

full with the daily profits， let me ever feel that I have gained

nothinglet me not forget for a moment， let me carry the pangs of

this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When I sit by the roadside， tired and panting， when I spread my bed

low in the dust， let me ever feel that the long journey is still

before melet me not forget a moment， let me carry the pangs of this

sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes40 sound and the

laughter there is loud， let me ever feel that I have not invited thee

to my houselet me not forget for a moment， let me carry the pangs

of this sorrow in my dreams and in my wakeful hours.

80

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky，

O my sun ever-glorious！ Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour， making

me one with thy light， and thus I count months and years separated

from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play， then take this fleeting41

emptiness of mine， paint it with colours， gild42 it with gold， float it

on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night， I shall

melt and vanish away in the dark， or it may be in a smile of the white

morning， in a coolness of purity transparent43.

81

On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time. But it is never

lost， my lord. Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own

hands.

Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts44，

buds into blossoms， and ripening45 flowers into fruitfulness.

I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed and imagined all work had

ceased. In the morning I woke up and found my garden full with wonders

of flowers.

82

Time is endless in thy hands， my lord. There is none to count thy

minutes.

Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. Thou

knowest how to wait.

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower.

We have no time to lose， and having no time we must scramble46 for a

chances. We are too poor to be late.

And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous

man who claims it， and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the

last.

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate to be shut； but I

find that yet there is time.

83

Mother， I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of

sorrow.

The stars have wrought47 their anklets of light to deck thy feet， but

mine will hang upon thy breast.

Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to

withhold48 them. But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own， and when I

bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.

84

It is the pang39 of separation that spreads throughout the world and

gives birth to shapes innumerable in the infinite sky.

It is this sorrow of separation that gazes in silence all nights from

star to star and becomes lyric49 among rustling50 leaves in rainy darkness

of July.

It is this overspreading pain that deepens into loves and desires，

into sufferings and joy in human homes； and this it is that ever melts

and flows in songs through my poet's heart.

85

When the warriors51 came out first from their master's hall， where had

they hid their power？ Where were their armour52 and their arms？

They looked poor and helpless， and the arrows were showered upon them

on the day they came out from their master's hall.

When the warriors marched back again to their master's hall where did

they hide their power？

They had dropped the sword and dropped the bow and the arrow； peace

was on their foreheads， and they had left the fruits of their life

behind them on the day they marched back again to their master's hall.

86

Death， thy servant， is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and

brought thy call to my home.

The night is dark and my heart is fearfulyet I will take up the

lamp， open my gates and bow to him my welcome. It is thy messenger who

stands at my door.

I will worship him placing at his feet the treasure of my heart.

He will go back with his errand done， leaving a dark shadow on my

morning； and in my desolate53 home only my forlorn self will remain as

my last offering to thee.

87

In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my

room； I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be

regained54.

But infinite is thy mansion55， my lord， and seeking her I have to come

to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy56 of thine evening sky and I lift my

eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink57 of eternity58 from which nothing can

vanishno hope， no happiness， no vision of a face seen through

tears.

Oh， dip my emptied life into that ocean， plunge it into the deepest

fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of

the universe.

88

Deity59 of the ruined temple！ The broken strings60 of Vina sing no more

your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of

worship. The air is still and silent about you.

In your desolate dwelling61 comes the vagrant62 spring breeze. It brings

the tidings of flowersthe flowers that for your worship are offered

no more.

Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing63 for favour still refused.

In the eventide， when fires and shadows mingle64 with the gloom of dust，

he wearily comes back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.

Many a festival day comes to you in silence， deity of the ruined

temple. Many a night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.

Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to the

holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.

only the deity of the ruined temple remains65 unworshipped in deathless

neglect.

89

No more noisy， loud words from mesuch is my master's will.

Henceforth I deal in whispers. The speech of my heart will be carried

on in murmurings of a song.

Men hasten to the King's market. All the buyers and sellers are there.

But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day， in the thick of

work.

Let then the flowers come out in my garden， though it is not their

time； and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.

Full many an hour have I spent in the strife66 of the good and the evil，

but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my

heart on to him； and I know not why is this sudden call to what

useless inconsequence！