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Gitanjali Chapter 42 / 104

Contents

  1. 1 Introduction (W. B. Yeats)
  2. 2 Song 1
  3. 3 Song 2
  4. 4 Song 3
  5. 5 Song 4
  6. 6 Song 5
  7. 7 Song 6
  8. 8 Song 7
  9. 9 Song 8
  10. 10 Song 9
  11. 11 Song 10
  12. 12 Song 11
  13. 13 Song 12
  14. 14 Song 13
  15. 15 Song 14
  16. 16 Song 15
  17. 17 Song 16
  18. 18 Song 17
  19. 19 Song 18
  20. 20 Song 19
  21. 21 Song 20
  22. 22 Song 21
  23. 23 Song 22
  24. 24 Song 23
  25. 25 Song 24
  26. 26 Song 25
  27. 27 Song 26
  28. 28 Song 27
  29. 29 Song 28
  30. 30 Song 29
  31. 31 Song 30
  32. 32 Song 31
  33. 33 Song 32
  34. 34 Song 33
  35. 35 Song 34
  36. 36 Song 35
  37. 37 Song 36
  38. 38 Song 37
  39. 39 Song 38
  40. 40 Song 39
  41. 41 Song 40
  42. 42 Song 41
  43. 43 Song 42
  44. 44 Song 43
  45. 45 Song 44
  46. 46 Song 45
  47. 47 Song 46
  48. 48 Song 47
  49. 49 Song 48
  50. 50 Song 49
  51. 51 Song 50
  52. 52 Song 51
  53. 53 Song 52
  54. 54 Song 53
  55. 55 Song 54
  56. 56 Song 55
  57. 57 Song 56
  58. 58 Song 57
  59. 59 Song 58
  60. 60 Song 59
  61. 61 Song 60
  62. 62 Song 61
  63. 63 Song 62
  64. 64 Song 63
  65. 65 Song 64
  66. 66 Song 65
  67. 67 Song 66
  68. 68 Song 67
  69. 69 Song 68
  70. 70 Song 69
  71. 71 Song 70
  72. 72 Song 71
  73. 73 Song 72
  74. 74 Song 73
  75. 75 Song 74
  76. 76 Song 75
  77. 77 Song 76
  78. 78 Song 77
  79. 79 Song 78
  80. 80 Song 79
  81. 81 Song 80
  82. 82 Song 81
  83. 83 Song 82
  84. 84 Song 83
  85. 85 Song 84
  86. 86 Song 85
  87. 87 Song 86
  88. 88 Song 87
  89. 89 Song 88
  90. 90 Song 89
  91. 91 Song 90
  92. 92 Song 91
  93. 93 Song 92
  94. 94 Song 93
  95. 95 Song 94
  96. 96 Song 95
  97. 97 Song 96
  98. 98 Song 97
  99. 99 Song 98
  100. 100 Song 99
  101. 101 Song 100
  102. 102 Song 101
  103. 103 Song 102
  104. 104 Song 103

Gitanjali

Song 41

Where dost thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding thyself in the shadows? They push thee and pass thee by on the dusty road, taking thee for naught. I wait here weary hours spreading my offerings for thee, while passers-by come and take my flowers, one by one, and my basket is nearly empty.

The morning time is past, and the noon. In the shade of evening my eyes are drowsy with sleep. Men going home glance at me and smile and fill me with shame. I sit like a beggar maid, drawing my skirt over my face, and when they ask me, what it is I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.

Oh, how, indeed, could I tell them that for thee I wait, and that thou hast promised to come. How could I utter for shame that I keep for my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.

I sit on the grass and gaze upon the sky and dream of the sudden splendour of thy coming—all the lights ablaze, golden pennons flying over thy car, and they at the roadside standing agape, when they see thee come down from thy seat to raise me from the dust, and set at thy side this ragged beggar girl a-tremble with shame and pride, like a creeper in a summer breeze.

But time glides on and still no sound of the wheels of thy chariot. Many a procession passes by with noise and shouts and glamour of glory. Is it only thou who wouldst stand in the shadow silent and behind them all? And only I who would wait and weep and wear out my heart in vain longing?