Extract from Gitanjali Poem by Indian Poet Tagore

　
If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and
endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry
vigil and its head bent low with patience.
　
The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy
voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.
　
Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my
birds' nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all
my forest groves. On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained
unheeded.
　
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from
my dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the
south wind.
　
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it
seemed to me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking
for its completion.
　
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that
this perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own
heart.
　
　
I must launch out my boat. The languid hours pass by on the
shore--Alas for me!
　
The spring has done its flowering and taken leave. And now with
the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.
　
The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady
lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall.
　
What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill
passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song
floating from the other shore?
In the deep shadows of the rainy July, with secret steps, thou
walkest, silent as night, eluding all watchers.
　
Today the morning has closed its eyes, heedless of the insistent
calls of the loud east wind, and a thick veil has been drawn over
the ever-wakeful blue sky.
　
The woodlands have hushed their songs, and doors are all shut at
every house. Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted
street. Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open
in my house--do not pass by like a dream.
　
　
Art thou abroad on this stormy night on thy journey of love, my
friend? The sky groans like one in despair.
　
I have no sleep tonight. Ever and again I open my door and look
out on the darkness, my friend!
　
I can see nothing before me. I wonder where lies thy path!
　
By what dim shore of the ink-black river, by what far edge of the
frowning forest, through what mazy depth of gloom art thou
threading thy course to come to me, my friend?