BE NOT ashamed, my brothers, to stand before the proud and the
powerful with your white robe of simpleness.
Let your crown be of humility, your freedom the freedom of the soul.
Build God's throne daily upon the ample bareness of your poverty, and know that what is huge is not great and pride is not everlasting.

       নামাও নামাও আমায় তোমার
                    চরণতলে,
       গলাও হে মন, ভাসাও জীবন
                    নয়নজলে।
                           একা আমি অহংকারের
                                  উচ্চ অচলে,
                           পাষাণ-আসন ধুলায় লুটাও,
                                         ভাঙো সবলে।
                           নামাও নামাও আমায় তোমার
                                         চরণতলে।
       কী লয়ে বা গর্ব করি
                    ব্যর্থ জীবনে।
       ভরা গৃহে শূন্য আমি
                    তোমা বিহনে।
                           দিনের কর্ম ডুবেছে মোর
                                         আপন অতলে
                           সন্ধ্যাবেলার পূজা যেন
                                         যায় না বিফলে।
                           নামাও নামাও আমায় তোমার
                                         চরণতলে।

A RAY OF morning sun strikes aslant at the door.
The assembled crowd feel in their blood the primaeval chant of creation:
'Mother, open the gate!'
The gate opens.
The mother is seated on a straw bed with the babe on her lap,
Like the dawn with the morning star.
The sun's ray that was waiting at the door outside falls on the head of the child.
The poet strikes his lute and sings out:
'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.'
They kneel down,the king and the beggar, the saint and the sinner, the wise and the fool,and cry:
'Victory to Man, the new-born, the ever-living.'
The old man from the East murmurs to himself:
'I have seen!'