Gitanjali - Thirst:
- I asked nothing from you;
I uttered not my name to your ear.
When you took your leave I stood silent.
I was alone by the well where the shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home with their brown earthen pitchers full to the brim.
They called me and shouted, Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.
But I languidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.
I heard not your steps as you came.
Your eyes were sad when they fell on me;
your voice was tired as you spoke low 'Ah, I am a thirsty traveller'.
I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from my jar on your joined palms.
The leaves rustled overhead;
the cuckoo sang from the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bend of the road.
I stood speechless with shame when my name you did ask.
Indeed, what had I done for you to keep me in remembrance?
But the memory that I could give water to you to allay your thirst will cling to my heart and enfold it in sweetness.
The morning hour is late, the bird sings in weary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think and think.