The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

cried out among the swaying bamboo branches.

       The clouds ran across the sky as though in the flight from defeat.

       My feet were tired.

       I know not what you thought of me or for whom you were waiting at your door.

       Flashes of lightning dazzled your watching eyes.

       How could I know that you could see me where I stood in the dark?

       I know not what you thought of me.

       The day is ended, and the rain has ceased for a moment.

       I leave the shadow of the tree at the end of your garden and this seat on the grass.

       It has darkened; shut your door; I go my way.

       The day is ended.

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      Where do you hurry with your basket this late evening when the marketing is over?

       They all have come home with their burdens; the moon peeps from above the village trees.

       The echoes of the voices calling for the ferry run across the dark water to the distant swamp where wild ducks sleep.

       Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?

       Sleep has laid her fingers upon the eyes of the earth.

       The nests of the crows have become silent, and the murmurs of the bamboo leaves are silent.

       The labourers home from their fields spread their mats in the courtyards.

       Where do you hurry with your basket when the marketing is over?

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      It was mid-day when you went away.

       The sun was strong in the sky.

       I had done my work and sat alone on my balcony when you went away.

       Fitful gusts came winnowing through the smells of many distant fields.

       The doves cooed tireless in the shade, and a bee strayed in my room humming the news of many distant fields.

       The village slept in the noonday heat.

       The road lay deserted.

       In sudden fits the rustling of the leaves rose and died.

       I glazed at the sky and wove in the blue the letters of a name I had known, while the village slept in the noonday heat.

       I had forgotten to braid my hair.

       The languid breeze played with it upon my cheek.

       The river ran unruffled under the shady bank.

       The lazy white clouds did not move.

       I had forgotten to braid my hair.

       It was mid-day when you went away.

       The dust of the road was hot and the fields panting.

       The doves cooed among the dense leaves.

       I was alone in my balcony when you went away.

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      I was one among many women busy with the obscure daily tasks of the household.

       Why did you single me out and bring me away from the cool shelter of our common life?

       Love unexpressed in sacred.

       It shines like gems in the gloom of the hidden heart.

       In the light of the curious day it looks pitifully dark.

       Ah, you broke through the cover of my heart and dragged my trembling love into the open place, destroying for ever the shady corner where it hid its nest.

       The other women are the same as ever.

       No one has peeped into their inmost being, and they themselves know not their own secret.

       Lightly they smile, and weep, chatter, and work.

       Daily they go to the temple, light their lamps, and fetch water from the river.

       I hoped my love would be saved from the shivering shame of the shelterless, but you turn your face away.

       Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its lidless eyes staring night and day.

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      I plucked your flower, O world!

       I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.

       When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower had faded, but the pain remained.

       More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!

       But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night I have not my rose, only the pain remains.

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      One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a flower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf.

       I put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes.

       I kissed her and said, "You are blind even as the flowers are.

       You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift."

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      O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also of men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts.

       Poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery; painters are giving your form ever new immortality.

       The sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summer gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you more precious.

       The desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth.

       You are one half woman and one half dream.

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      Amidst the rush and roar of life, O Beauty, carved in stone, you stand mute and still, alone and aloof.

       Great Time sits enamoured at your feet and murmurs:

       "Speak, speak to me, my love; speak, my bride!"

       But your speech is shut up in stone, O Immovable Beauty!

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      Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.

       Let it not be a death but completeness.

       Let love melt into