Diseases Of Our Age
January's jaundice has given way
To February's fevers just today
As if through barometers darkly see
A long march stretching ahead barrenly
And should April's cruelty not suffice
To drive home hard our human sacrifice
We come at last through our dismay to June
To take a gasping breath, and not too soon.
=====
Tagore's writing distills in me some odd secretion of wonder. I cannot read him all at once. So I reflect on his illumination as if a cave-bound Platonist. Here he is again.
This is my prayer to You, O God
- strike, strike at the root of poverty in my heart.
Give me the strength to bear lightly my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor nor bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
Give me the strength to surrender my will to Your love.
To February's fevers just today
As if through barometers darkly see
A long march stretching ahead barrenly
And should April's cruelty not suffice
To drive home hard our human sacrifice
We come at last through our dismay to June
To take a gasping breath, and not too soon.
=====
Tagore's writing distills in me some odd secretion of wonder. I cannot read him all at once. So I reflect on his illumination as if a cave-bound Platonist. Here he is again.
This is my prayer to You, O God
- strike, strike at the root of poverty in my heart.
Give me the strength to bear lightly my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor nor bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
Give me the strength to surrender my will to Your love.
etched with acid at 8:58:00 pm
1 Comments:
Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, "He comes, comes, ever comes."
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
Tagore is a wonderful poet, ja? :)
I had people staring at me strangely on Friday when I declared triumphantly on my way out of school, "We're halfway through the term! Hurray!"
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