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Three Chorales from Tagore

Song Cycle by Paul Creston, born Giuseppe Guttoveggio (1906 - 1985)

1. Thou hast made me endless  [sung text not yet checked]

Language: English 
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. 
This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, 
and fillest it ever with fresh life.

This little flute of a reed 
thou hast carried over hills and dales, 
and hast breathed through it 
melodies eternally new.

At the immortal touch of thy hands 
my little heart loses its limits 
in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.

Thy infinite gifts come to me 
only on these very small hands of mine. 
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, 
and still there is room to fill.

Text Authorship:

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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

2. Here is thy footstool  [sung text not yet checked]

Language: English 
Here is thy footstool 
and there rest thy feet 
where live the poorest, 
and lowliest, and lost.

When I try to bow to thee, 
my obeisance cannot reach down 
to the depth where thy feet rest 
among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

Pride can never approach 
to where thou walkest 
in the clothes of the humble 
among the poorest, and lowliest, and lost.

My heart can never find its way 
to where thou keepest company 
with the companionless among the poorest, 
the lowliest, and the lost.

Text Authorship:

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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Voici ton repose-pied et là repose ton pied", copyright © 2013, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , "Demut", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

3. Where the mind is without fear  [sung text not yet checked]

Language: English 
Where the mind is without fear 
and the head is held high; 
Where knowledge is free; 
Where the world has not 
been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic [walls]1; 
Where words come out from the depth of truth; 
Where tireless striving 
stretches its arms towards perfection; 
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way 
into the dreary desert sand of dead habit; 
Where the mind is led forward by thee 
into ever-widening thought and action -- 
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, 
let my country awake.

Text Authorship:

Based on:

See other settings of this text.

Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • GER German (Deutsch) (Bertram Kottmann) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission

View original text (without footnotes)
1 Bachlund: "wars"

Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
Total word count: 270