WHAT music is that in whose measure the world is rocked?
We laugh when it beats upon the crest of life, we shrink in terror when it returns into the dark.
But the play is the same that comes and goes with the rhythm of the endless music.
You hide your treasure in the palm of your hand, and we cry that we are robbed.
But open and shut your palm as you will, the gain and the loss are the same.
At the game you play with your own self you lose and win at once.
LIII.
I HAVE kissed this world with my eyes and my limbs; I have wrapt it within my heart in numberless folds; I have flooded its days and nights with thoughts till the world and my life have grown one,-and I love my life because I love the light of the sky so enwoven with me.
If to leave this world be as real as to love it-then there must be a meaning in the meeting and the parting of life.
If that love were deceived in death, then the canker of this deceit would eat into all things, and the stars would shrivel and grow black.
LIV.
THE Cloud said to me, "I vanish"; the Night said, "I plunge into the fiery dawn."
The Pain said, "I remain in deep silence as his footprint."
"I die into the fulness," said my life to me.
The Earth said, "My lights kiss your thoughts every moment."
"The days pass," Love said, "but I wait for you."
Death said, "I ply the boat of your life across the sea."
LV.
TULSIDAS, the poet, was wandering, deep in thought, by the Ganges, in that lonely spot where they burn their dead.
He found a woman sitting at the feet of the corpse of her dead husband, gaily dressed as for a wedding.
She rose as she saw him, bowed to him, and said, "Permit me, Master, with your blessing, to follow my husband to heaven."
"Why such hurry, my daughter?" asked Tulsidas. "Is not this earth also His who made heaven?"
"For heaven I do not long," said the woman. "I want my husband."
Tulsidas smiled and said to her, "Go back to your home, my child. Before the month is over you will find your husband."
The woman went back with glad hope. Tulsidas came to her every day and gave her high thoughts to think, till her heart was filled to the brim with divine love.
When the month was scarcely over, her neighbours came to her, asking, "Woman, have you found your husband?"
The widow smiled and said, "I have."
Eagerly they asked, "Where is he?"
"In my heart is my lord, one with me," said the woman.
LVI.
You came for a moment to my side and touched me with the great mystery of the woman that there is in the heart of creation.
She who is ever returning to God his own outflo wing of sweetness; she is the ever fresh beauty and youth in nature; she dances in the bubbling streams and sings in the morning light; she with heaving waves suckles the thirsty earth; in her the Eternal One breaks in two in a joy that no longer may contain itself, and overflows in the pain of love.
LVII.
WHO is she who dwells in my heart, the woman forlorn for ever?
I wooed her and I failed to win her. I decked her with wreaths and sang in her praise.
A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
"I have no joy in thee," she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I bought her jewelled anklets and fanned her with a fan gem-studded; I made her a bed on a bedstead of gold.
There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.
"I have no joy in these," she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I seated her upon a car of triumph and drove her from end to end of the earth.
Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
"I have no joy in conquest," she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I asked her, "Tell me whom do you seek?"
She only said, "I wait for him of the unknown name."
Days pass by and she cries, "When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me for ever?"
LVIII.
YOURS is the light that breaks forth from the dark, and the good that sprouts from the cleft heart of strife.
Yours is the house that opens upon the world, and the love that calls to the battlefield.
Yours is the gift that still is a gain when everything is a loss, and the life that flows through the caverns of death.
Yours is the heaven that lies in the common dust, and you are there for me, you are there for all.
LIX.
WHEN the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of the dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.
There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.
Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.
LX.
THE odour cries in the bud, "Ah me, the day departs, the happy day of spring, and I am a prisoner in petals!"
Do not lose heart, timid thing! Your bonds will burst, the bud will open into flower, and when you die in the fulness of life, even then the spring will live on.
The odour pants and flutters within the bud, crying, "Ah me, the hours pass by, yet I do not know where I go, or what it is I seek!"
Do not lose heart, timid thing! The spring breeze has overheard your desire, the day will not end before you have fulfilled your being.
Dark is the future to her, and the odour cries in despair, "Ah me, through whose fault is my life so unmeaning?
"Who can tell me, why I am at all?" Do not lose heart, timid thing! The perfect dawn is near when you will mingle your life with all life and know at last your purpose.
LXI.
SHE is still a child, my lord.
She runs about your palace and plays, and tries to make of you a plaything as well.
She heeds not when her hair tumbles down and her careless garment drags in the dust.
She falls asleep when you speak to her and answers not-and the flower you give her in the morning slips to the dust from her hands.
When the storm bursts and darkness is over the sky she is sleepless; her dolls lie scattered on the earth and she clings to you in terror.
She is afraid that she may fail in service to you.
But with a smile you watch her at her game.
You know her.
The child sitting in the dust is your destined bride; her play will be stilled and deepened into love.
LXII.
"WHAT is there but the sky, O Sun, that can hold thine image?"
"I dream of thee, but to serve thee I can never hope," the dewdrop wept and said, "I am too small to take thee unto me, great lord, and my life is all tears."
"I illumine the limitless sky, yet I can yield myself up to a tiny drop of dew," thus the Sun said; "I shall become but a sparkle of light and fill you, and your little life will be a laughing orb."
LXIII.
NOT for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to waste.
Send me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars.
Send me the love that would soak down into the centre of being, and from there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life, giving birth to fruits and flowers.
Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fulness of peace.
LXIV.
THE sun had set on the western margin of the river among the tangle of the forest.
The hermit boys had brought the cattle home, and sat round the fire to listen to the master, Guatama, when a strange boy came, and greeted him with fruits and flowers, and, bowing low at his feet, spoke in a bird-like voice-"Lord, I have come to thee to be taken into the path of the supreme Truth.
"My name is Satyakama."
"Blessings be on thy head," said the master.
"Of what clan art thou, my child? It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom."
"Master," answered the boy, "I know not of what clan I am. I shall go and ask my mother."
Thus saying, Satyakacricma took leave, and wading across the shallow stream, came back to his mother's hut, which stood at the end of the sandy waste at the edge of the sleeping village.
The lamp burnt dimly in the room, and the mother stood at the door in the dark waiting for her son's return.
She clasped him to her bosom, kissed him on his hair, and asked him of his errand to the master.
"What is the name of my father, dear mother?" asked the boy.
"It is only fitting for a Brahmin to aspire to the highest wisdom, said Lord Guatama to me."
The woman lowered her eyes, and spoke in a whisper.
"In my youth I was poor and had many masters. Thou didst come to thy mother Jabala's arms, my darling, who had no husband."
The early rays of the sun glistened on the tree-tops of the forest hermitage.
The students, with their tangled hair still wet with their morning bath, sat under the ancient tree, before the master.
There came Satyakama.
He bowed low at the feet of the sage, and stood silent.