Wednesday, April 04, 2007


I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not
my name to thine ear. When thou took'st thy leave
I stood silent. I was alone by the well
where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women
had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers
full to the brim. They called me and shouted,
"Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon."
But I languidly lingered awhle
lost in the midst of vague musings.

I heard not thy steps as thou comest.
Thine eyes were sad when they fell on me;
thy voice was tired as thou spokest low -
"Ah, I am a thirsty traveller." I started
up from my daydreams and poured water from my jar
on thy joined palms.

The leaves rustled overhead
the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark,
and perfume of
Balbla flowers came from the
bend of the road.

I stood speechless with shame when
my name thou didst ask. Indeed,
what had I done for thee to keep me in rememberance?
But the memory that I could give water to thee
to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and
enfold it in sweetnes. The morning hour is late,
the bird sings in weary notes
, neem leaves
rustle overhead
and I sit and think and think

Rabindranath Tagore


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