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If the civilization of Bengal remains unbroken, if that common

mind which-as one divines-runs through all, is not, as with us,

broken into a dozen minds that know nothing of each other,

something even of what is most subtle in these verses will have

come, in a few generations, to the beggar on the roads. When

there was but one mind in England, Chaucer wrote his Troilus and

Cressida, and thought he had written to be read, or to be read

out-for our time was coming on apace-he was sung by minstrels for

a while. Rabindranath Tagore, like Chaucer's forerunners, writes

music for his words, and one understands at every moment that he

is so abundant, so spontaneous, so daring in his passion, so full

of surprise, because he is doing something which has never seemed

strange, unnatural, or in need of defence.