THE FIRST FLUSH of dawn glistens on the dew-dripping leaves of the forest.
The man who reads the sky cries:
'Friends, we have come!'
They stop and look around.
On both sides of the road the corn is ripe to the horizon,
the glad golden answer of the earth to the morning light.
The current of daily life moves slowly
between the village near the hill and the one by the river bank.
The potter's wheel goes round, the woodcutter brings fuel to the market, the cow-herd takes his cattle to the pasture,
and the woman with the pitcher on her head walks to the well.
But where is the King's castle, the mine of gold, the secret book of magic,
the sage who knows love's utter wisdom?
'The stars cannot be wrong,' assures the reader of the sky.
'Their signal points to that spot.'
And reverently he walks to a wayside spring
from which wells up a stream of water, a liquid light,
like the morning melting into a chorus of tears and laughter.
Near it in a palm grove surrounded by a strange hush stands a leaf-
thatched hut,
at whose portal sits the poet of the unknown shore, and sings:
'Mother, open the gate!'

ভৈরবী
      অয়ি ভুবনমনমোহিনী,
অয়ি নির্মলসূর্যকরোজ্জ্বল ধরণী,
      জনকজননী-জননী!
নীলসিন্ধুজল-ধৌত চরণতল,
অনিলবিকম্পিত শ্যামল অঞ্চল,
অম্বরচুম্বিত ভাল হিমাচল,
      শুভ্রতুষারকিরীটিনী!
প্রথম প্রভাত উদয় তব গগনে,
প্রথম সামরব তব তপোবনে,
প্রথম প্রচারিত তব বনভবনে
      জ্ঞানধর্ম কত কাব্যকাহিনী!
চিরকল্যাণময়ী তুমি ধন্য,
দেশ বিদেশে বিতরিছ অন্ন,
জাহ্নবীযমুনা বিগলিত করুণা
      পুণ্যপীযূষস্তন্যবাহিনী!

I LONG TO GO over there to the further bank of the river,
Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;
Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;
Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the riverside pasture;
Whence they all come back home in the evening, leaving the jackals to howl in the island overgrown with weeds.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of the ferry when I am grown up.
They say there are strange pools hidden behind that high bank,
Where flocks of wild ducks come when the rains are over, and thick reeds grow round the margins where waterbirds lay their eggs;
Where snipes with their dancing tails stamp their tiny footprints upon the clean soft mud;
Where in the evening the tall grasses crested with white flowers invite the moonbeam to float upon their waves.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of the ferryboat when I am grown up.
I shall cross and cross back from bank to bank, and all the boys and girls of the village will wonder at me while they are bathing.
When the sun climbs the mid sky and morning wears on to noon,
I shall come running to you, saying, 'Mother, I am hungry!'
When the day is done and the shadows cower under the trees, I shall come back in the dusk.
I shall never go away from you into the town to work like father.
Mother, if you don't mind, I should like to become the boatman of the ferryboat when I am grown up.