Gitanjali 54

I asked nothing from thee; I uttered not my name to thine ear. Whenthou took’st thy leave I stood silent. I was alone by the well wherethe shadow of the tree fell aslant, and the women had gone home withtheir brown earthen pitchers full to the brim. They called me andshouted, “Come with us, the morning is wearing on to noon.” But Ilanguidly lingered awhile lost in the midst of vague musings.

I heard not thy steps as thou camest. Thine eyes were sad when theyfell on me; thy voice was tired as thou spokest low—“Ah, I am a thirstytraveller.” I started up from my day-dreams and poured water from myjar on thy joined palms. The leaves rustled overhead; the cuckoo sangfrom the unseen dark, and perfume of babla flowers came from the bendof the road.

I stood speechless with shame when my name thou didst ask. Indeed, whathad I done for thee to keep me in remembrance? But the memory that Icould give water to thee to allay thy thirst will cling to my heart andenfold it in sweetness. The morning hour is late, the bird sings inweary notes, neem leaves rustle overhead and I sit and think andthink.