# The Modern Review/Volume 14/Number 5/Poems

THE MODERN REVIEW
POEMS
By Rabindranath Tagore
englished by the poet himself
The axe begged humbly, "O thou mighty oak, Lend me only a piece of thy branch— Just enough to fit me with a handle." The handle was ready, and there was no more wasting of time. The beggar at once commenced business—and hit hard at the root, And there was the end of the oak.
The favorite damsel said, "Sire, that other wretched queen of thine Is unfathomably deep in her cunning greed. Thou didst graciously assign her a corner of thy cowshed, It is only to give her chances to have milk from thy cow for nothing." The king pondered deeply and said, "I suspect thou hast hit the real truth. But I know not how to put a stop to this thieving." The favorite said, "'Tis simple. Let me have the royal cow And I will take care that none milk her but myself."
Said the beggar's wallet, "Come, my brother purse, Between us two the difference is so very small, Let us exchange!" The purse snapped short and sharp, "First let that very small difference cease!"
The highest goes hand-in-hand with the lowest. It is only the commonplace who walks at a distance.
The thirsty ass went to the brink of the lake And came back exclaiming, "O how dark is the water!" The lake smiled and said, "Every ass thinks the water black, But he who knows better is sure that it is white."
Time says, "It is I who create this world." The clock says, "Then I am thy creator."
The flower cries loudly, "Fruit, my fruit, Where art thou loitering—Oh how far!" "Why is such a clamour?" The fruit says in answer, "I ever live in your heart taking form."
The man says, "I am strong, I do whatever I wish." "Oh what a shame!" says the woman with a blush. "Thou art restrained at every step", says the man. The poet says, "that is why the woman is so beautiful."
"All my perfume goes out, I cannot keep it shut." Thus murmurs the flower and beckons back its breath. The breeze whispers gently, "You must ever remember this— It is not your perfume at all which is not given out to others."
The water in the pitcher is bright and transparent; But the ocean is dark and deep. The little truths have words that are clear; The great truth is greatly obscure and silent.
A little flower blooms in the chink of a garden wall. She has no name nor fame. The garden worthies disdain to give her a glance. The sun comes up and greets her, "How is my little beauty?"
Love comes smiling with empty hands. Flattery asks him, "What wealth didst thou win?" Love says, "I cannot show it, it is in my heart." Flattery says, "I am practical. What I get I gather in both hands."
"Who will take up my work?" Asks the setting sun. None has an answer in the whole silent world. The earthen lamp says humbly from a corner, "I will, my lord, as best as I can."
The arrow thinks to himself, "I fly, I am free, Only the bow is motionless and fixed." The bow divines his mind and says, "When wilt thou know the truth That thy freedom is ever dependent on me?"
The moon gives light to the whole creation, But keeps the dark spot only to herself.
"Restless ocean, what endless speech is thine?" "It is the question eternal," answered the sea. "What is there in thy stillness, thou ancient line of hills?" "It is the silence everlasting," came the answer.
In the morn the moon is to lose her sovereignty, Yet there is smile on her face when she says, "I wait at the edge of the western sea To greet the rising sun, bow low, and then depart."
The word says, "When I notice thee, O work, I am ashamed of my own little emptiness." The work says, "I feel how utterly poor I am; I never can attain the fulness which thou hast."
If you at night shed tears for the lost daylight You get not back the sun but miss all the stars instead.
I ask my destiny—What power is this That cruelly drives me onward without rest? My destiny says, "Look round!" I turn back and see It is I myself that is ever pushing me from behind.
The ashes whisper, "The fire is our brother." The smoke curls up and says, "We are twins." "I have no kinship," the firefly says, "with the flame— But I know I am more than a brother to him."
The night comes stealthily into the forest and loads its branches With buds and blossoms, then retires with silent steps. The flowers waken and cry—"To the morning we owe our all." And the morn asserts with a noise, "Yes, it is doubtlessly true."
The night kissed the departing day and whispered, "I am death, thy mother, fear me not. I take thee unto me only to give thee a new birth And make thee eternally fresh."
Death, if thou wert the void that our fear let us imagine, In a moment the universe would disappear through the chasm. But thou art the fulfilment eternal, And the world ever rocks on thy arms like a child.
Death threatens, "I will take thy dear ones." The thief says, "Thy money is mine." Fate says, "I'll take as my tribute whatever is thine own." The detractor says, "I'll rob you of your good name." The poet says, "But who is there to take my joy from me?"