Rabindranath Tagore’s “Prithibi” (The Earth), a distinguished piece from his poetry collection Putroput, offers a contemplative vision of human existence, the nature of the universe, and the spiritual bond that ties them together. In this poem, Tagore does not merely portray the Earth as a habitable planet, but imagines it as a sentient, kindred presence—an eternal companion with whom humanity shares a profound and sacred connection.
Here, the poet presents Nature as the ultimate nurturer—one who offers shelter, illuminates the path, and serves as a guiding force for the soul. The word “Prithibi” is employed as a potent symbol: at times a mother, at others a sanctuary, and often the very map of one’s journey towards inner awakening.
Though written in simple language, the poem is imbued with deep philosophical insight. It bears the unmistakable mark of Tagore’s worldview, wherein the oneness of human life with Nature and the cosmos is both sensed and celebrated. “Prithibi” stands as a singular exemplar within Bengali literature—one that kindles a gentle spiritual tranquillity in the reader’s heart, and radiates the light of a deeper awareness of life.
The Earth
From Putroput by Rabindranath Tagore
Today, O Earth, accept my reverent bow—
A final salutation laid upon the altar
Of day’s departing hush.
O mighty-blooded, valiant Earth,
You are conquered only by the brave.
You are at once tender and austere—
In your heart, the masculine and feminine are fused,
And humankind you toss
Upon the storm-swept tide of fierce inner conflict.
In your right hand—ambrosia’s cup,
In your left—a chalice brimming still;
Your playground echoes with mocking laughter,
And life, to be noble, must be steeped in pain.
You make the worthy hard to reach,
And mercy never falls on the unworthy.
Upon your every tree and branch,
The struggle of the moment hides in silence;
Yet in its fruits and grains,
That strife finds garlands of fulfilment.
Your waters and lands are theatres of war,
Where, at death’s threshold,
The victory-cry of the living is raised.
From the unpitying soil you lift
The triumph-arch of civilisation;
If a step falters,
The forfeit is utter ruin.
At history’s primal dawn,
The demon held sway—
Coarse, brutish, blind.
His fingers were clumsy,
Unskilled in grace.
With mace and club,
He battered down seas and mountains,
Shrouding the skies in smoke and fire.
He reigned over the realm of matter
And raged, in envy, against the breath of life.
Then came the gods—
Chanting spells of demon-subjugation.
The arrogance of matter was humbled,
And the Life-Giver spread her verdant veil.
Dawn stood atop the eastern peaks;
And in the west, twilight descended
With a peaceful urn upon her brow.
The demon was chained—
Yet his savage shadow clings to your lore.
Amidst ordered ways
He still lets loose chaos;
From the dark recesses of your nature,
He stirs, zigzag and sudden.
His madness pulses through your veins.
The mantras of the gods rise still—
In air and forest, day and night,
In tones solemn, harsh, and deep.
Yet from the hollows of your breast,
Half-tamed, the hooded serpent-demon
Rears its head, again and again.
In its wrath, you wound your own kin,
And shatter your own creation.
Your pedestal is founded on good and evil alike.
To your majestic beauty and awe,
Today I offer my scarred, wounded life.
Beneath your soil flows the hidden stream
Of immense life and mighty death—
And today, I feel its current
Through every fibre of my being.
Countless ages,
Countless forgotten lives
Have mingled into that sacred dust.
And I shall leave behind
A few fistfuls of ash—
The last remains of all my joy and grief.
I shall dissolve
Into this all-consuming, nameless, formless,
Soundless dust of eternity.
Earth—at times still, imprisoned in your own halt,
At times vanishing into the veils of cloud,
At times meditating in the solemn silence
Of your crown of mountain peaks,
And at others murmuring softly
In sleepless wave-songs of your oceans—
You are Annapurna, the Beautiful,
And you are, when barren, a terror to behold.
On one side, your harvest fields bow heavy with ripeness;
There the morning sun, joyful and mild,
Wipes away the dew each day
With golden hands.
And when the sun sets
Among waves of dusk-tinted grain,
It leaves behind a silent message:
“I am content.”
On the other side—your barren desert,
Pale with dread, lifeless, fruitless—
Scattered with bones of beasts,
Where the ghost-dance of mirage deceives the eye.
I have seen in Baishakh’s dry rage
Your storm descend like a black kite—
Seizing the horizon
In beak and talon.
The sky, roaring like a lion,
Lashed its tail—
And the trembling trees collapsed in dust.
Roof-thatch fled on the wind
Like escaped convicts.
Yet again, in Falgun’s fevered southern breeze,
I have heard your whispered soliloquy of longing and reunion,
Carried on the scent of mango-blossom.
The goblet of the moon brimmed over—
Foaming with heavenly intoxication.
The rustling woods lost patience
At the wind’s bold play,
And burst into sudden, exultant song.
You are gentle, yet fierce;
Ancient, yet ever-new.
You emerged from the sacred fire
Of beginningless creation—
At dawns uncounted by any measure.
Along your sacred pilgrim-paths
Lie remnants of shattered histories,
Meaning lost.
Without grief, you have layered
Your discarded creations
In strata of endless forgetting.
O Nourisher of life,
You have reared us
Within the small cages of fleeting time.
All play ends there,
All triumphs fade there.
Today, I bring no illusion before you.
I shall not plead for immortality
For the garland I have strung
From my days and nights.
If, amidst your ten thousand solar cycles,
I have, for one moment,
Truly earned a seat of truth—
If, in sorrow, I have conquered
A fruitful fragment of life—
Then grant me a single dot of your clay
As a mark upon my brow.
Let it fade into the night
Where all marks vanish into the Unknown.
O indifferent Earth,
Before you forget me completely,
At your relentless feet
Today—I bow.
— Shantiniketan, 16 October 1935