Gitanjali — Song 54
Gitanjali — Song 54
Rabindranath Tagore
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 awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.
I heard not thy steps as thou camest. 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 day-dreams and poured water from my
jar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sang
from the unseen dark, and perfume of _babla_ 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 remembrance? But the memory that I
could give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart and
enfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings in
weary notes, _neem_ leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and
think.
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Complete 103-poem English Gitanjali, translated by the author and published in 1912. · Translated by Rabindranath Tagore
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