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Although the statement of the last line is made in the present tense, it carries us to the verge of a future event. As we strain beyond the limits of the poem for a glimpse of that meeting with the Beloved, have we not surpassed the scope of written comprehension and, to a significant degree, become the one whose track of feeling we have followed so closely. The interspaces between art and life no longer exist: we claim the experience as our own. This involvement of the reader in the poetic state is, Valery writes, the design of all poetry:
A poet's function-do not be startled by this remarkis not to experience the poetic state: that is a private affair. His function is to create it in others. The poet is recognised?or at least everyone recognises his own poet-by the simple fact that he causes his reader to become "inspired." Positively speaking, inspiration is a graceful attribute with which the reader endows his poet. [41]
Several of Tagore's lyrics comprise complementary studies to "Far, Very Far." Indeed, poems of waiting for God form a significant part of "Gitanjali." Like Sri Chinmoy's song, they too build into the "feeling-present" of despair a sense of portentousness that is founded on an expectant and eager longing for God as the Beloved. The poems dwell on hints of His approach, but press forward to images of His arrival. We seem always to be "at the frontier," waiting:
Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my friend? The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep to-night. Ever and again I open my door and look out on the darkness, my friend!
I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path!
By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading thy course to come to me, my friend?[42]
Have you not heard his silent steps? He comes, comes, ever comes.
Every moment and every age, every day and every night he comes, comes, ever comes.
Many a song have I sung in many a mood of mind, but all their notes have always proclaimed, "He comes,
comes, ever comes."
In the fragrant days of sunny April through the forest path he comes, comes, ever comes.
In the rainy gloom of July nights on the thundering chariot of clouds he comes, comes, ever comes.
In sorrow after sorrow it is his steps that press upon my heart, and it is the golden touch of his feet that makes my joy to shine.
I know not from what distant time thou art ever coming nearer to meet me. Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not why to-day my life is all astir, and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work, and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.
