Little fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.
Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heave of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
NOTE: This poem is often entitled “Let My Country Awake,” particularly when it is anthologized independently of the larger Gitanjali poem.
a tree’s last blossom
seems to wait til no one
is looking to drop.
what a thing it must be
to see a holdout yield.
I question a local boy under a pine.
He says, "Teacher is gathering herbs
right here on the mountain...
But who can say where?
The mountain is thick with clouds."
a daytime half moon,
feeble compared to at night,
yet I stop to look.
I don’t mind one crow,
on a rail or curb,
by its lonesome.
Nor am I troubled by
a large number of the birds.
(The group designation “murder,”
notwithstanding.)
But where two or three
are gathered, facing
each other…
That’s when I get the
heebie-jeebies.
SPRING
Despite the storm,
Spring's herald makes it through:
Scent of plum blossom.
SUMMER
Abundant fireflies
This year, but this morning
None are to be seen.
AUTUMN
Autumn sea:
A boat moves, leaf-like,
In the floating world.
WINTER
Winter rains
Cross the mountains
On rising clouds.
