gitanjali

WHERE dost thou stand behind them
all, my lover, hiding thyself in the
shadows? They push thee and pass
thee by on the dusty road, taking thee
for naught. I wait here weary hours
spreading my offerings for- thee,
while passers by come and take my
flowers, one by one, and my basket is
nearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the
noon. In the shade of evening my eyes
are drowsy with sleep. Men going
home glance at me and smile and fill
me with shame. I sit like a beggar
maid, drawing my skirt over my face,
and when they ask me, what it is I
want, I drop my eyes and answer
them not.

Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them
that for thee I wait, and that thou
hast promised to come. How could I
utter for shame that I keep for my
dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this
pride in the secret of my heart.

I sit on the grass and gaze upon
the sky and dream of the sudden
splendor of thy coming-all the lights
ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy
car, and they at the roadside standing
agape, when they see thee come
down from thy seat to raise me from
the dust, and set at thy side this
ragged beggar girl a-tremble with
shame and pride, like a creeper in a
summer breeze.

But time glides on and still no
sound of the wheels of thy chariot.
Many a procession passes by with
noise and shouts and glamour of glory.
Is it only thou who wouldst stand in
the shadow silent and behind them
all? And only I who would wait and
weep and wear out my heart in vain
longing?