The gardener - Rabindranath Tagore

When the lamp went out by my bed I woke up with the early birds.
I sat at my open window with a fresh wreath on my loose hair.
The young traveller came along the road in the rosy mist of the
morning.
A pearl chain was on his neck, and the sun's rays fell on his
crown. He stopped before my door and asked me with an eager
cry, "Where is she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, young traveller, she
is I."
It was dusk and the lamp was not lit.
I was listlessly braiding my hair.
The young traveller came on his chariot in the glow of the
setting sun.
His horses were foaming at the mouth, and there was dust on his
garment.
He alighted at my door and asked in a tired voice, "Where is
she?"
For very shame I could not say, "She is I, weary traveller, she
is I."
It is an April night. The lamp is burning in my room.
The breeze of the south comes gently. The noisy parrot sleeps in
its cage.
My bodice is of the colour of the peacock's throat, and my mantle
is green as young grass.
I sit upon the floor at the window watching the deserted street.
Through the dark night I keep humming, "She is I, despairing
traveller, she is I."

When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing, the
wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street
stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am
ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do
not rustle on the trees, and the water is still in the river
like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly—I do not know how to quiet
it.
When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and
my eyelids droop, the night darkens, the wind blows out the
lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light. I
do not know how to hide it.

Let your work be, bride. Listen, the guest has come.
Do you hear, he is gently shaking the chain which fastens the
door?
See that your anklets make no loud noise, and that your step is
not over-hurried at meeting him.
Let your work be, bride, the guest has come in the evening.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
It is the full moon on a night of April; shadows are pale in the
courtyard; the sky overhead is bright.
Draw your veil over your face if you must, carry the lamp to the
door if you fear.
No, it is not the ghostly wind, bride, do not be frightened.
Have no word with him if you are shy; stand aside by the door
when you meet him.
If he asks you questions, and if you wish to, you can lower your
eyes in silence.
Do not let your bracelets jingle when, lamp in hand, you lead him
in.
Have no word with him if you are shy.
Have you not finished your work yet, bride? Listen, the guest
has come.
Have you not lit the lamp in the cowshed?
Have you not got ready the offering basket for the evening
service?
Have you not put the red lucky mark at the parting of your hair,
and done your toilet for the night?
O bride, do you hear, the guest has come?
Let your work be!

Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If your braided hair has loosened, if the parting of your hair be
not straight, if the ribbons of your bodice be not fastened, do
not mind.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
Come, with quick steps over the grass.
If the raddle come from your feet because of the dew, if the
rings of bells upon your feet slacken, if pearls drop out of
your chain, do not mind.
Come with quick steps over the grass.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
Flocks of cranes fly up from the further river-bank and fitful
gusts of wind rush over the heath.
The anxious cattle run to their stalls in the village.
Do you see the clouds wrapping the sky?
In vain you light your toilet lamp—it flickers and goes out in
the wind.
Who can know that your eyelids have not been touched with lamp-
black? For your eyes are darker than rain-clouds.
In vain you light your toilet lamp—it goes out.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.
If the wreath is not woven, who cares; if the wrist-chain has not
been linked, let it be.
The sky is overcast with clouds—it is late.
Come as you are; do not loiter over your toilet.

If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my
lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret.
The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds
hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair
above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my
heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.
If you would be idle and sit listless and let your pitcher float
on the water, come, O come to my lake.
The grassy slope is green, and the wild flowers beyond number.
Your thoughts will stray out of your dark eyes like birds from
their nests.
Your veil will drop to your feet.
Come, O come to my lake if you must sit idle.
If you would leave off your play and dive in the water, come, O
come to my lake.
Let your blue mantle lie on the shore; the blue water will cover
you and hide you.
The waves will stand a-tiptoe to kiss your neck and whisper in
your ears.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would dive in the water.
If you must be mad and leap to your death, come, O come to my
lake.
It is cool and fathomlessly deep.
It is dark like a sleep that is dreamless.
There in its depths nights and days are one, and songs are
silence.
Come, O come to my lake, if you would plunge to your death.