The Fugitive
Rabindranath Tagore
2:21 h Verse Lvl 9.03
The Fugitive is a collection of poems from Indian writer, philosopher, and social reformer, Rabindranath Tagore. The poem, published in 1916, showcases Tagore's odd poetic technique, combining classic formalism with his own comic and visionary stylings. Tagore is a significant figure in Bengali literature and heavily influenced Indian 2oth century writing and art.

The Fugitive

Rabindranath Tagore



Darkly you sweep on, Eternal Fugitive, round whose bodiless rush stagnantspace frets into eddying bubbles of light.

Is your heart lost to the Lover calling you across his immeasurableloneliness?

Is the aching urgency of your haste the sole reason why your tangledtresses break into stormy riot and pearls of fire roll along your path asfrom a broken necklace?

Your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness, sweepingaside all waste; the storm centred with your dancing limbs shakes thesacred shower of death over life and freshens her growth.

Should you in sudden weariness stop for a moment, the world would rumbleinto a heap, an encumbrance, barring its own progress, and even the leastspeck of dust would pierce the sky throughout its infinity with anunbearable pressure.

My thoughts are quickened by this rhythm of unseen feet round which theanklets of light are shaken.

They echo in the pulse of my heart, and through my blood surges the psalmof the ancient sea.

I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and formto form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowingsand songs.

The tide runs high, the wind blows, the boat dances like thine own desire,my heart!

Leave the hoard on the shore and sail over the unfathomed dark towardslimitless light.


We came hither together, friend, and now at the cross-roads I stop to bidyou farewell.

Your path is wide and straight before you, but my call comes up by waysfrom the unknown.

I shall follow wind and cloud; I shall follow the stars to where day breaksbehind the hills; I shall follow lovers who, as they walk, twine their daysinto a wreath on a single thread of song, “I love.”


It was growing dark when I asked her, “What strange land have I come to?”

She only lowered her eyes, and the water gurgled in the throat of her jar,as she walked away.

The trees hang vaguely over the bank, and the land appears as though italready belonged to the past.

The water is dumb, the bamboos are darkly still, a wristlet tinkles againstthe water-jar from down the lane.

Row no more, but fasten the boat to this tree, — for I love the look of thisland.

The evening star goes down behind the temple dome, and the pallor of themarble landing haunts the dark water.

Belated wayfarers sigh; for light from hidden windows is splintered intothe darkness by intervening wayside trees and bushes. Still that wristlettinkles against the water-jar, and retreating steps rustle from down thelane littered with leaves.

The night deepens, the palace towers loom spectre-like, and the town humswearily.

Row no more, but fasten the boat to a tree.

Let me seek rest in this strange land, dimly lying under the stars, wheredarkness tingles with the tinkle of a wristlet knocking against awater-jar.


O that I were stored with a secret, like unshed rain in summer clouds — asecret, folded up in silence, that I could wander away with.

O that I had some one to whisper to, where slow waters lap under trees thatdoze in the sun.

The hush this evening seems to expect a footfall, and you ask me for thecause of my tears.

I cannot give a reason why I weep, for that is a secret still withheld fromme.


For once be careless, timid traveller, and utterly lose your way;wide-awake though you are, be like broad daylight enticed by and netted inmist.

Do not shun the garden of Lost Hearts waiting at the end of the wrong road,where the grass is strewn with wrecked red flowers, and disconsolate waterheaves in the troubled sea.

Long have you watched over the store gathered by weary years. Let it bestripped, with nothing remaining but the desolate triumph of losing all.


Two little bare feet flit over the ground, and seem to embody thatmetaphor, “Flowers are the footprints of summer.”

They lightly impress on the dust the chronicle of their adventure, to beerased by a passing breeze.

Come, stray into my heart, you tender little feet, and leave theeverlasting print of songs on my dreamland path.


I am like the night to you, little flower.

I can only give you peace and a wakeful silence hidden in the dark.

When in the morning you open your eyes, I shall leave you to a world a-humwith bees, and songful with birds.

My last gift to you will be a tear dropped into the depth of your youth; itwill make your smile all the sweeter, and bemist your outlook on thepitiless mirth of day.


Do not stand before my window with those hungry eyes and beg for my secret.It is but a tiny stone of glistening pain streaked with blood-red bypassion.

What gifts have you brought in both hands to fling before me in the dust?

I fear, if I accept, to create a debt that can never be paid even by theloss of all I have.

Do not stand before my window with your youth and flowers to shame mydestitute life.


If I were living in the royal town of Ujjain, when Kalidas was the king’spoet, I should know some Malwa girl and fill my thoughts with the music ofher name. She would glance at me through the slanting shadow of hereyelids, and allow her veil to catch in the jasmine as an excuse forlingering near me.

This very thing happened in some past whose track is lost under time’s deadleaves.

The scholars fight to-day about dates that play hide-and-seek.

I do not break my heart dreaming over flown and vanished ages: but alas andalas again, that those Malwa girls have followed them!

To what heaven, I wonder, have they carried in their flower-baskets thosedays that tingled to the lyrics of the king’s poet?

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