OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Gardener (Tagore)/14

I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind. The prone shadows with their outstretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light. The koels were weary of their songs. I was walking by the road, I do not know why. The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging tree. Someone was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in the corner. I stood before this hut, I do not know why. The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a mango forest. It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the river landing-place. I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.
Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the spring was languorous, and the mango blossoms were dropping on the dust. The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood on the landing-step. I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.
Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds. The light is gray upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.
# The Gardener

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Gardener."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Gardener, traditional ballad
* The Gardener, a story by Hans Christian Andersen
* The Gardener, a poem by Gladys Cromwell
* Gardener, a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson
* The Gardener, a poem by Francis Ledwidge
* The Gardener, a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
* The Gardener, a work by Rabindranath Tagore
* The Gardener, a poem by Katharine Tynan
# The Gardener (Tagore)/10

Let your work be, bride. Listen, the guest has come. Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the door? See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is not over-hurried at meeting him. Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening. No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened. It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the courtyard; the sky overhead is bright. Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the door if you fear. No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door when you meet him. If he asks questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your eyes in silence. Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him in. Have no word with him if you are shy.
Have you not finished your work yet, bride? Listen, the guest has come. Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed? Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening service? Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair, and done your toilet for the night? O bride, do you hear, the guest has come? Let your work be!
# The Gardener (Tagore)/12

If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my lake. The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret. The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds hand low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows. I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my heart. Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.
If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float on the water, come, O come to my lake. The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number. Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from their nests. Your veil will drop to your feet. Come, O, Come to my lake if you must sit idle.
If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O come to my lake, Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in your ears. Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.
If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my lake. It is cool and fathomlessly deep. It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless. There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are silence. Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.
# The Gardener (Tagore)/13

I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the tree. Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the air. The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the earth. Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands, tender and fresh as butter. And I was standing still.
I did not say a word. It was the bird that sung unseen from the thicket. The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road, and the bees came humming one by one. On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was opened and the worshiper had begun his chants. With the vessel in your lap you were milking the cow. I stood with my empty can.
I did not come near you. The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple. The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven cattle. With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the river. Your bracelets were jingling, and from brimming over the jar. The morning wore on and I did not come near you.
# The Gardener (Tagore)/15

15
I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.
From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.
# The Garden of the Soul/Come, Holy Spirit

Originally the anthem said after singing the Veni Sancte Spiritus on Pentecost, this prayer is often recited alone as a private devotion.
This translation is from The Garden of the Soul , 1843.
Anth. Come, Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of thy faithful, and kindle in them the fire of thy love.
V. Send forth thy Spirit, and our hearts will be regenerated;
R. And thou shalt renew the face of the earth.
Let us Pray.
O GOD, who hast taught the hearts of the faithful by the light of the Holy Spirit, grant that we may, by the gift of the same Spirit, be always truly wise, and ever rejoice in his consolations. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Gardener (Tagore)

THE GARDENER
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO DALLAS • SAN FRANCISCO
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd.
TORONTO
Age 16
By Gaganemlra Nath Tagore, after a drawing by Jyotinndra Nath Tagore.
THE GARDENER
BY
RABINDRANATH TAGORE
TRANSLATED BY THE AUTHOR FROM THE ORIGINAL BENGALI
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 1913
TO
W. B. YEATS
PREFACE
Most of the lyrics of love and life, the translations of which from Bengali are published in this book, were written much earlier than the series of religious poems contained in the book named Gitanjali. The translations are not always literal—the originals being sometimes abridged and sometimes paraphrased.
RABINDRANATH TAGORE.
* 1
* 2
* 3
* 4
* 5
* 6
* 7
* 8
* 9
* 10
* 11
* 12
* 13
* 14
* 15
* 16
* 17
* 18
* 19
* 20
* 21
* 22
* 23
* 24
* 25
* 26
* 27
* 28
* 29
* 30
* 31
* 32
* 33
* 34
* 35
* 36
* 37
* 38
* 39
* 40
* 41
* 42
* 43
* 44
* 45
* 46
* 47
* 48
* 49
* 50
* 51
* 52
* 53
* 54
* 55
* 56
* 57
* 58
* 59
* 60
* 61
* 62
* 63
* 64
* 65
* 66
* 67
* 68
* 69
* 70
* 71
* 72
* 73
* 74
* 75
* 76
* 77
* 78
* 79
* 80
* 81
* 82
* 83
* 84
* 85
* Index of First Words
* Advertisements
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1941, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 82 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Gardener (Tagore)/1

1
Servant
Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!
Queen
The assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Why do you come at this late hour?
Servant
When you have finished with the others, that is my time.
I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.
Queen
What can you expect when it is too late?
Servant
Make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Queen
What folly is this?
Servant
I will give up my other work.
I throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do no send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. But make me the gardener of your flower garden.
Queen
What will your duties be?
Servant
The service of your idle days.
I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death.
​I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves.
I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs.
Queen
What will you have for your reward?
Servant
To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there.
Queen
Your prayers will be granted, my servant, you will be the gardener of my flower garden.
# The Harp-Weaver/Memory of Cape Cod

MEMORY OF CAPE COD
# The Harp-Weaver/Loving you less than life

XVII
Loving you less than life, a little less Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall Or bush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess I cannot swear I love you not at all. For there is that about you in this light— A yellow darkness, sinister of rain— Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. And I am made aware of many a week I shall consume, remembering in what way Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek, And what divine absurdities you say: Till all the world, and I, and surely you, Will know I love you, whether or not I do.
# The Harp-Weaver/My Heart, Being Hungry

MY HEART, BEING HUNGRY
My heart, being hungry, feeds on food The fat of heart despise. Beauty where beauty never stood, And sweet where no sweet lies I gather to my querulous need, Having a growing heart to feed.
It may be, when my heart is dull, Having attained its girth, I shall not find so beautiful The meagre shapes of earth, Nor linger in the rain to mark The smell of tansy through the dark.
# The Harp-Weaver/Never May the Fruit Be Plucked

NEVER MAY THE FRUIT BE PLUCKED
Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough
And gathered into barrels. He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs. Though the branches bend like reeds, Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree, He that would eat of love may bear away with him Only what his belly can hold, Nothing in the apron, Nothing in the pockets. Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough And harvested in barrels. The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins, In an orchard soft with rot.
# The Harp-Weaver/It came into her mind

XI
It came into her mind, seeing how the snow Was gone, and the brown grass exposed again, And clothes-pins, and an apron—long ago, In some white storm that sifted through the pane And sent her forth reluctantly at last To gather in, before the line gave way, Garments, board-stiff, that galloped on the blast Clashing like angel armies in a fray, An apron long ago in such a night Blown down and buried in the deepening drift, To lie till April thawed it back to sight, Forgotten, quaint and novel as a gift— It struck her, as she pulled and pried and tore, That here was spring, and the whole year to be lived through once more.
# The Harp-Weaver/Lord Archer, Death

XVI
Lord Archer, Death, whom sent you in your stead? What faltering prentice fumbled at your bow, That now should wander with the insanguine dead In whom forever the bright blood must flow? Or is it rather that impairing Time Renders yourself so random, or so dim? Or are you sick of shadows and would climb A while to light, a while detaining him? For know, this was no mortal youth, to be Of you confounded, but a heavenly guest, Assuming earthly garb for love of me, And hell’s demure attire for love of jest: Bringing me asphodel and a dark feather, He will return, and we shall laugh together!
# The Harp-Weaver/Love is not blind

III
Love is not blind. I see with single eye Your ugliness and other women’s grace. I know the imperfection of your face,— The eyes too wide apart, the brow too high For beauty. Learned from earliest youth am I In loveliness, and cannot so erase Its letters from my mind, that I may trace You faultless, I must love until I die. More subtle is the sovereignty of love: So am I caught that when I say, “Not fair,” ’Tis but as if I said, “Not here—not there— Not risen—not writing letters.” Well I know What is this beauty men are babbling of; I wonder only why they prize it so.
# The Harp-Weaver/Not over-kind nor over-quick

IX
Not over-kind nor over-quick in study
Nor skilled in sports nor beautiful was he. He had come into her life when anybody Would have been welcome, so in need was she. They had become acquainted in this way: He flashed a mirror in her eyes at school; By which he was distinguished; from that day They went about together, as a rule. She told, in secret and with whispering, How he had flashed a mirror in her eyes; And as she told, it struck her with surprise That this was not so wonderful a thing. But what’s the odds?—It’s pretty nice to know You’ve got a friend to keep you company everywhere you go.
# The Harp-Weaver/I shall go back again

X
I shall go back again to the bleak shore And build a little shanty on the sand, In such a way that the extremest band Of brittle seaweed will escape my door But by a yard or two; and nevermore Shall I return to take you by the hand; I shall be gone to what I understand, And happier than I ever was before. The love that stood a moment in your eyes, The words that lay a moment on your tongue, Are one with all that in a moment dies, A little under-said and over-sung. But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies Unchanged from what they were when I was young.
# The Harp-Weaver/Keen

KEEN
Weep him dead and mourn as you may, Me, I sing as I must: Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
Blessed be Death, that took my love And buried him in the sea, Where never a lie nor a bitter word Will out of his mouth at me.
This I have to hold to my heart, This to take by the hand: Sweet we were for a summer month As the sun on the dry white sand;
Mild we were for a summer month As the wind from over the weirs. And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt The harsh and slovenly years!
Who builds her a house with love for timber Builds her a house of foam. And I’d rather be bride to a lad gone down Than widow to one safe home.
# The Happy couple/Chapter 8

I FIND I MUST LOVE.
TO little or no purpose I spent many days, In ranging the Park, th' Exchange, and the plays; For ne'er in my rambles, till now, did I prove, So lucky to meet with the man I could love. Oh! how I am pleased when I think on this man, That I find must love, let me do what I can. That I find, &c.
How long I shall love him, I can no more tell, Than had I a fever, when I should be well. My passion shall kill me, before I will show it: And yet I would give all the world he did know it. But oh! how I sigh, when I think, should he woo me, I cannot deny what, I know, would undo me. I cannot deny what, &c.
FINIS.
# The Hare's Bride

* related portals: Brothers Grimm.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
English-language translations of Häsichenbraut include:
* "The Rabbit's Bride", translated by Lucy Crane, illustrated by Walter Crane, in Household stories from the collection of the Bros Grimm (1882)
* "The Hare's Bride", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, in Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 1 (1884)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Hare and the Tortoise

* related portals: Aesop's Fables.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Also called The Tortoise and the Hare: one of Aesop's Fables (Perry Index #226).
English-language translations of Χελώνη και λαγωός include:

## Direct translations

* "A Hare and a Tortoiſe", translated by Roger L'Estrange, in Fables of Æsop and Other Eminent Mythologists (1692)
* "The Hare and the Tortoise", translated by George Fyler Townsend, illustrated by Harrison Weir, in Three Hundred Æsop's Fables (1867)
* "The Hare and the Tortoise", translated by Joseph Jacobs, edited by Joseph Jacobs, illustrated by Richard Heighway, in The Fables of Æsop (1894)
* "The Hare and the Tortoise", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)

## Translations via La Fontaine

* "The Hare and the Tortoise" in Fables, translated by Elizur Wright (1881)
* "The Hare and the Tortoise" in An argosy of fables, translated by Paul Hookham (1921)

## Other translations and retellings

* "The true history of the hare and the tortoise" retold in Fifty-one Tales by Lord Dunsany (1915).
* "The Persevering Tortoise and the Pretentious Hare", parody version by Guy Wetmore Carryl (1898)

## See also

* Hare and Tortoise
# The Happy couple/Chapter 7

If e’er I do WELL 'tis a WONDER.
WHen I was a young lad, my fortune was bad, if e’er I do well ’tis a wonder; I spent all my means, on whores, bawds, and queens, then I got a commission to plunder. Fal all de rall, &c.
The hat I have on so greasy is grown, remarkable ⟨'tis⟩ for it’s shining; 'Tis stitch'd all about, without button or loop, and never a bit of a lining. &c.
The coat I have on, so thread-bare is grown, so out at the arm-pits and elbows, That I look'd as absurd as a sailor on board, that has lain fifteen months in the bilboes. &c.
My shirt it is tore both behind and before, the colour is much like a cinder; 'Tis so thin and so fine, that it is my design, to present it to the muses for tinder. &c.
My blue fustian breeches are worn to the stitches, my legs you may see what between them: My pockets all four I'm the son of a whore if there's ever one farthing within them. &c,
I've stockings, 'tis true, but the devil a shoe, I'm oblig'd to wear boots in all weather: Be-damn'd the boot-sole, curse on the spur-roll, confounded be the upper-leather. &c.
Had ye then but seen the sad plight I was in, ye'd not seen such a poet 'mongst twenty, I have nothing that's full, but my shirt and my skull, for my pockets and belly are empty. &c.
# The Hare and the Hound

Perry index 331
* "The Hare and the Hound", translated by George Fyler Townsend, illustrated by Harrison Weir, in Three Hundred Æsop's Fables (1867)
* "The Hare and the Hound", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Inner Life, v. I/Foreword to the Indian edition

FOREWORD TO THE INDIAN EDITION
Our evening “Talks” at the Theosophical Headquarters at Adyar have become quite an institution, and a very considerable amount of information, due to new research, often arising from some question put by a student, is given in this friendly and intimate circle. Our good Vice-President, Sir S. Subramania Iyer, found so much help and illumination from these talks, that he earnestly wished to share his pleasure with his brethren in the outer world, and gave a sum of money to help in their publication. I cordially endorse his view of their value, and commend this volume and those which will follow it to the earnest study of all our members. A second series is ready for the press, but the date of its issue will depend partly on the reception given to the present.
ANNIE BESANT
# The Inner Life, v. I/Fourth Section

FOURTH SECTION
THE HIGHER PLANES
# The Inner Life, v. I/Fourth Section/III

BUDDHIC CONSCIOUSNESS
A selfish man could not function on the buddhic plane, for the very essence of that plane is sympathy and perfect comprehension, which excludes selfishness. A man cannot make a buddhic body until he has conquered the lower planes. There is a close connection between the astral and the buddhic, the former being in some ways a reflection of the latter; but it must not therefore be supposed that a man can leap from the astral consciousness to the buddhic without developing the intervening vehicles.
Certainly on the highest levels of the buddhic plane a man becomes one with all others, but we must not therefore assume that he feels alike towards all. There is no reason to suppose that we shall ever feel absolutely alike towards everybody; why should we? Even the Lord BUDDHA had His favorite disciple Ananda; even the Christ regarded Saint John the Beloved in a different way from the rest. What is true is that presently we shall come to love every one as much as we now love our nearest and dearest, but by that time we shall have developed for those nearest and dearest a type of love of which we have no conception now. The buddhic consciousness includes that of many others, so that you may put yourself down into another man and feel exactly as he does, looking upon him from within instead of from without. In that relation you will feel no shrinking even from an evil man, because you will recognize him as a part of yourself — a weak part. You will desire to help him by pouring strength in that weak part of yourself. What is required is really to be in this attitude and to do it, not merely to talk about it or think vaguely of it; and it is not easy to acquire this power.
# The Heptalogia (Swinburne)

The Heptalogia contains seven works, each one a parody of a different poet, the last one, Nephelidia, being a self-parody. Details are given for each poem based on A Bibliography of the Writings in Prose and Verse of Algernon Charles Swinburne (1912), by Thomas J. Wise, in 2 volumes.
The transcription is from the first and only edition of the work.
THE
HEPTALOGIA
page
LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET
page
Specimens of Modern Poets
THE HEPTALOGIA
OR
THE SEVEN AGAINST SENSE
A CAP WITH SEVEN BELLS
* THE HIGHER PANTHEISM IN A NUTSHELL
* JOHN JONES
* THE POET AND THE WOODLOUSE
* THE PERSON OF THE HOUSE (IDYL CCCLXVI)
* LAST WORDS OF A SEVENTH-RATE POET
* SONNET FOR A PICTURE
* NEPHELIDIA
London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1880
[The right of translation is reserved]
page
CONTENTS.
page
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse