ling, Autumn is on the
throne beyond all doubt. Its life is to be seen spread under the clear
transparent leisure of _Aswin_.[56] And in the molten gold of this
autumn sunshine, softly reflected from the fresh dewy green outside, I
am pacing the verandah and composing, in the mode _Jogiya_, the song:

In this morning light I do not know what it is that my heart desires.

The autumn day wears on, the house gong sounds 12 noon, the mode
changes; though my mind is still filled with music, leaving no room for
call of work or duty; and I sing:

What idle play is this with yourself, my heart,
through the listless hours?

Then in the afternoon I am lying on the white floorcloth of my little
room, with a drawing book trying to draw pictures,--by no means an
arduous pursuit of the pictorial muse, but just a toying with the desire
to make pictures. The most important part is that which remains in the
mind, and of which not a line gets drawn on the paper. And in the
meantime the serene autumn afternoon is filtering through the walls of
this little Calcutta room filling it, as a cup, with golden
intoxication.

I know not why, but all my days of that period I see as if through this
autumn sky, this autumn light--the autumn which ripened for me my songs
as it ripens the corn for the tillers; the autumn which filled my
granary of leisure with radiance; the autumn which flooded my unburdened
mind with an unreasoning joy in fashioning song and story.

The great difference which I see between the Rainy-season of my
childhood and the Autumn of my youth is that in the former it is outer
Nature which closely hemmed me in keeping me entertained with its
numerous troupe, its variegated make-up, its medley of music; while the
festivity which goes on in the shining light of autumn is in man
himself. The play of cloud and sunshine is left in the background, while
the murmurs of joy and sorrow occupy the mind. It is our gaze which
gives to the blue of the autumn sky its wistful tinge and human yearning
which gives poignancy to the breath of its breezes.

My poems have now come to the doors of men. Here informal goings and
comings are not allowed. There is door after door, chamber within
chamber. How many times have we to return with only a glimpse of the
light in the window, only the sound of the pipes from within the palace
gates lingering in our ears. Mind has to treat with mind, will to come
to terms with will, through ma