flower garden at night, drunk with colour

Come to my garden walk, my love.
Pass by the fervid flowers that press themselves on your sight.
Pass them by, stopping at some chance joy,
which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines,
yet elude.
For lover’s gift is shy, it never tells its name,
it flits across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.
Overtake it or miss it for ever.
But a gift that can be grasped is merely a frail flower,
or a lamp with flame that will flicker.


Lover’s Gifts II: Come to My Garden Walk
Rabindranath Tagore

Last night in the garden I offered you my youth's foaming wine.
You lifted the cup to your lips, you shut your eyes and smiled
while I raised your veil,
unbound your tresses,
drawing down upon my breast your face sweet with its silence,
last night when the moon's dream overflowed the world of slumber.
Today in the dew-cooled calm of the dawn
you are walking to God's temple,
bathed and robed in white,
with a basketful of flowers in your hand.
I stand aside in the shade under the tree,
with my head bent,
in the calm of the dawn
by the lonely road to the temple.

Lover’s Gifts XIII: Last Night in the Garden
Rabindranath Tagore