Short Poems

Far in the mountain deeps
A stag is crying;
Lo, he treads and leaps,
O'er dead leaves flying;
O, who can hear his lonely voice
And then in autumn time rejoice?

Assuredly, as thou hast thirsted for blood
Destiny will also thirst for thine,
And the very hairs of thy body
Will become daggers to destroy thee!

O Tongue, the taste of ill desires renounce.
Hear me and know them to be poison: and from these ill desires escape.
Moth, deer, elephant, bee, hornet, all are entangled in desire.
Each to satisfy his own strong desire, passed from the world in misery.
To mankind belong five senses, on five desires they are wholly set.
O foolish mind, what pain awaits thee? Cry to thine understanding “wake.”

Even as Thou wilt, so keep me Lord.
To all Thy servants show Thy mercy Lord, as once Thou didst to Dhruva and to Pralhada.
Those who abandon Thee to serve another, among mankind are lowest of the low.
Grant to Nanda Das the word that drives out fears, that at Thy lotus feet his heart may rest.

O Lord, my soul has clung to Thee.

I wander lost by day and night: be merciful and cast one glance upon me.
Never do I forget—never forget Thou me: keep my mind ever at Thy feet.

Merits and demerits bring I none: from first to last I am Thine alone.
Jagjivan supplicates and prays—Give me the boon of Bhagti; knowing me of little worth.

O Soul, thou hast missed all the meaning of life—why hast thou lost it so?
Fool, ceasing to serve the feet of the Lord, thou wanderest blindly like a drunken man.
Cleaving fast to the world's desires, thou hast abandoned all thy worth.
Enslaved by lust and wrath and coveting, to thine own true good thou hast paid no heed.
Wealth, wife and sons will not avail thee, upon whom thou hast relied.
Wouldst thou be freed from sin and suffering from heart-burning and pain,
Then, Girdhar Lal, seek the refuge of Hari, the Guardian of all life in the world.

He in whose heart the name of Hari dwells, he called upon another's name, or did not call. 'Tis one.
He whose mind is dyed in the Lord's dye, he sewed a covering for his body, or did not sew. 'Tis one.
For him in whose house there lives one worthy son, there live ten thousand sons, unworthy sons; or did not live. 'Tis one.
He, before whose door the Ganges flows, he drank the water of a well, or did not drink. 'Tis one.
He, who spoke the word of charity, with out-stretched hand gave arms or did not give. 'Tis one.

An exile, I ascend this tower,
Thinking of home, and with the anguish of the waning year.
The sun has set far beyond heaven's immensity;
The unsullied waters flow on in bleak undulation.
I see a stray cloud of Chin above the mountain trees,
And the wild geese of Tartary flying over the river dunes.
Alas! for ten thousand miles under the dark blue sky
As far as my eyes can reach, there is but one vast gloom for me.

You wore the habit but the secret knew not—amrit you drank and made it poison.
In lust and wrath your life you wasted—with Sadhus lived but sang not Rama.
Your tilak has not cooled your fever, though the thickest rosaries you wore.
Rai Das says, If I win the secret, shall I hold and know Niranjan true?

When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.