d sat and talked of strange lands.
They work refreshed in the morning when birds made them glad, and
friendly flowers nodded their heads at them from the wayside.

But no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp
stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo
branches fling their shadows on the grass-grown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.

65

Is that your call again?
The evening has come. Weariness clings around me like the arms
of entreating love.
Do you call me?

I had given all my day to you, cruel mistress, must you also rob
me of my night?
Somewhere there is an end to everything, and the loneness of the
dark is one's own.
Must your voice cut through it and smite me?

Has the evening no music of sleep at your gate?
Do the silent-winged stars never climb the sky above your
pitiless tower?
Do the flowers never drop on the dust in soft death in your
garden?

Must you call me, you unquiet one?
Then let the sad eyes of love vainly watch and weep.
Let the lamp burn in the lonely house.
Let the ferry-boat take the weary labourers to their home.
I leave behind my dreams and I hasten to your call.

66

A wandering madman was seeking the touchstone, with matted locks
tawny and dust-laden, and body worn to a shadow, his lips
tight-pressed, like the shut-up doors of his heart, his burning
eyes like the lamp of a glow-worm seeking its mate.

Before him the endless ocean roared.
The garrulous waves ceaselessly talked of hidden treasures,
mocking the ignorance that knew not their meaning.
Maybe he now had no hope remaining, yet he would not rest, for
the search had become his life,--
Just as the ocean for ever lifts its arms to the sky for the
unattainable--
Just as the stars go in circles, yet seeking a goal that can
never be reached--
Even so on the lonely shore the madman with dusty tawny locks
still roamed in search of the touchstone.

One day a village boy came up and asked, "Tell me, where did you
come at this golden chain about your waist?"
The madman started--the chain that once was iron was verily gold;
it was not a dream, but he did not know when it had changed.
He struck his forehead wildly--where, O where had he witho