I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house, <br />if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda <br />forest. <br />The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan <br />tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to <br />splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream. <br />He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all <br />the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of <br />dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the <br />courtyard to milk the king. <br />As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk <br />gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the <br />turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails <br />outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds. <br />When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he <br />disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the <br />swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind <br />throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks <br />of the blue river. <br />No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of <br />new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for <br />the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka <br />groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the <br />maidens!<br /><br />Sir Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lover-s-gifts-xxii-i-shall-gladly-suffer-2/
