Gitanjali - Sword:
- I thought I should ask of you but I dared not - the rose wreath you had on your neck.
Thus I waited for the morning, when you did depart, to find a few fragments on the bed.
And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.
Ah me, what is it I find?
What token left of your love?
It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water.
It is your mighty sword, flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder.
The young light of morning comes through the window and spread itself upon your bed.
The morning bird twitters and asks, Woman, what have you got?
No, it is no flower, nor spices, nor vase of perfumed water, it is your dreadful sword.
I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of your.
I can find no place to hide it.
I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when press it to my bosom.
Yet shall I bear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this gift of your.
From now there shall be no fear left for me in this world, and you shalt be victorious in all my strife.
You have left death for my companion and I shall crown him with my life.
Your sword is with me to cut asunder my bonds, and there shall be no fear left for me in the world.
From now I leave off all petty decorations.
Lord of my heart, no more shall there be for me waiting and weeping in corners, no more coyness and sweetness of demeanour.
You have given me your sword for adornment.
No more doll's decorations for me!