gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden
treasures, they know not how to cast nets.'

W.B. YEATS _September 1912_




GITANJALI



Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with
fresh life.

This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and
dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its
limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of
mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room
to fill.


When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would
break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my
eyes.