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My song has put off her adornments.  She has no pride of dress

and decoration.  Ornaments would mar our union; they would come

between thee and me; their jingling would drown thy whispers.

My poet’s vanity dies in shame before thy sight.  O master poet,

I have sat down at thy feet.  Only let me make my life simple and

straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.

The child who is decked with prince’s robes and who has jewelled

chains round his neck loses all pleasure in his play; his dress

hampers him at every step.

In fear that it may be frayed, or stained with dust he keeps

himself from the world, and is afraid even to move.

Mother, it is no gain, thy bondage of finery, if it keep one

shut off from the healthful dust of the earth, if it rob one of

the right of entrance to the great fair of common human life.

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From: GITANJALI – ‘Song Offerings’



Tagore Short Poems

Tagore Stray Birds

Tagore Poems