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

tears of sorrow.

The stars have wrought 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

withhold them.  But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and

when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy


It is the pang 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 lyric among rustling 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.

When the warriors came out first from their master’s hall, where

had they hid their power?  Where were their armour and their


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.

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From: GITANJALI – ‘Song Offerings’



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