Gitanjali-74
THE day is no more, the shadow is
upon the earth. It is time that I go to
the stream to fill my pitcher.
The evening air is eager with the
sad music of the water. Ah, it calls me
out into the dusk. In the lonely lane
there is no passer by, the wind is up,
the ripples are rampant in the river.
I know not if I shall. come back
home. I know not whom I shall
chance to meet. There at the fording
in the little boat the unknown man
plays upon his lute.