I HAVE EVER loved thee in a hundred forms and times,
Age after age, in birth following birth.
The chain of songs that my fond heart did weave
Thou graciously didst take around thy neck,
Age after age, in birth following birth.
When I listen to the tales of the primitive past,
The love-pangs of the far distant times,
The meetings and partings of the ancient ages,
I see thy form gathering light
Through the dark dimness of Eternity
And appearing as a star ever fixed in the memory of the All.
We two have come floating by the twin currents of love
That well up from the inmost heart of the Beginningless.
We two have played in the lives of myriad lovers
In tearful solitude of sorrow,
In tremulous shyness of sweet union,
In old old love ever renewing its life.
The on-rolling flood of the love eternal
Hath at last found its perfect final course.
All the joys and sorrows and longings of heart,
All the memories of the moments of ecstasy,
All the love-lyrics of poets of all climes and times
Have come from the everywhere
And gathered in one single love at thy feet.

THOU WILT find. Eternal Traveller, marks of thy footsteps across my songs.

YOU MAKER of pictures,
a ceaseless traveller among men and things,
rounding them up in your net of vision
and bringing them out in lines
far above their social value and market price.
Yonder colony of the outcaste,
its crowd of rustic roofs,
and an empty field in the background
scorched by the angry April sun
are hurriedly passed by and never missed,
till your wayfaring lines spoke out;
they are there,
and we started up and said, indeed they are.
Those nameless tramps fading away every moment into shadows
were rescued from their nothingness
and compelled us to acknowledge
a greater appeal of the real in them
than is possessed by the rajahs
who lavish money on their portraits of dubious worth
for fools to gape at in wonder.
You ignored the mythological steed of paradise
when your eyes were caught by a goat
who is only noticed with our expostulation
when straying on our brinjal plot.
You brought out its own majesty of goatliness in your lines
and our mind woke up into a surprise.
The poor goat-seller remains ignorant of the fact
that the picture does not represent the commonplace beast that is
his own,
but it is a discovery.