Is it beyond thee to be glad with the
gladness of this rhythm? To be tossed
and lost and broken in the whirl of this
All things rush on, they stop not,
they look not behind, no power can
hold them back, they rush on.
Keeping steps with that restless, rapid
music, seasons come dancing and pass
away––colours, tunes, and perfumes
pour in endless cascades in the abound-
ing joy that scatters and gives up and
dies every moment.
From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Company, 1916) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.