The gardener - Rabindranath Tagore

I asked nothing, only stood at the edge of the wood behind the
tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn, and the dew in the
air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the thin mist above the
earth.
Under the banyan tree you were milking the cow with your hands,
tender and fresh as butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not say a word. It was the bird that sang unseen from the
thicket.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road,
and the bees came humming one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was
opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
I stood with my empty can.
I did not come near you.
The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven
cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the
river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar.
The morning wore on and I did not come near you.

I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday
was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet
of the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why.
The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging
tree.
Some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in
the corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not why.
The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a
mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the
river landing place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.
Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the
spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the
dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood
on the landing step.
I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.
Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are
waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with
his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of
the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what
I do not seek.
From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire.
The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your
garland of flowers in unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like
praise.
It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet
useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.
We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

The yellow bird sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with
gladness.
We both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of
joy.
Her pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden
trees.
If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.
Only one field lies between us.
Bees that have hived in our grove go to seek honey in theirs.
Flowers launched from their landing-stairs come floating by the
stream where we bathe.
Baskets of dried kusm flowers come from their fields to
our market.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.
The lane that winds to their house is fragrant in the spring with
mango flowers.
When their linseed is ripe for harvest the hemp is in bloom in
our field.
The stars that smile on their cottage send us the same twinkling
look.
The rain that floods their tank makes glad our kadam forest.
The name of our village is Khanjan, and Anjan they call our
river.
My name is known to all the village, and her name is Ranjan.