gitanjali

DEATH, thy servant, is at my door. He
has crossed the unknown sea and
brought thy call to my home.

The night is dark and my heart is
fearful-yet I will take up the lamp.
open my gates and bow to him my
welcome. It is thy messenger who
stands at my door.

I will worship him with folded
hands, and with tears. I will worship
him placing at his feet. the treasure of
my heart.

He will go back with his errand
done, leaving a dark shadow on my
morning and in my desolate home
only my forlorn self will remain as my
last offering to thee.