যে ছবিতে ফোটে নাই
     সবগুলি রেখা
সেও তো, হে শিল্পী, তব
     নিজ হাতে লেখা।
অনেক মুকুল ঝরে,
     না পায় গৌরব--
তারাও রচিবে তব
     বসন্ত উৎসব।

LET THE LINKS of my shackles snap at every step of thy dance,
O Lord of Dancing,
and let my heart wake in the freedom of the eternal voice.
Let it feel the touch of that foot that ever sets swinging the
lotus-seat of the muse,
and with its perfume maddens the air through ages.
Rebellious atoms are subdued into forms at thy dance-time,
the suns and planets,anklets of light,twirl round thy moving feet, and, age after age. Things struggle to wake from dark slumber,
through pain of life, into consciousness,
and the ocean of thy bliss breaks out in tumults of suffering and joy.
Before I leave, tinge my heart in secret with thine own colour,
the colour of the young smile, of tears shaded with ancient sadness.
Let it tinge my thoughts, my deeds, the flame of my evening lamp,
the waking moment of my midnight.
Before I leave, rouse my heart with the swing of thy dancing feet, the swing that wakens stars in the deep of night,
frees the stream from the rocky cave,
gives voice to clouds in thunder and rain,
the swing by which the balance in the centre of existence is
swayed in endless cycles of movement.

যে যায় তাহারে আর
      ফিরে ডাকা বৃথা।
অশ্রুজলে স্মৃতি তার
      হোক পল্লবিতা।