The empty vessel
The thirty spokes unite in the one nave; but it is on the empty space (for the axle), that the use of the wheel depends. Clay is fashioned into vessels; but it is on their empty hollowness, that their use depends. The door and windows are cut out (from the walls) to form an apartment; but it is on the empty space (within), that its use depends. Therefore, what has a (positive) existence serves for profitable adaptation, and what has not that for (actual) usefulness.
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.
The Editors’ note
Both turn on a vessel whose emptiness is its use. Laozi observes that the wheel, the clay pot and the room all serve through the space that is not there. Tagore’s life is a frail vessel that God empties again and again and fills with fresh life, a reed flute he breathes new melodies through.
In the Tâo Teh King emptiness is a principle of things, stated without a giver. In Gitanjali it is the condition of receiving from a personal giver, and the emptying is itself a gift: “still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.”