"Where does thou stand behind them all, my lover, hiding behind 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 passed, 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 shirt over my face, and when they ask me, what is it I want, I drop my eyes and answer them not.
Oh, how, indeed, should I answer them that for thee I wait, and that thou have promised to come. How should I utter for shame that for thee I keep my dowry this poverty. Ah, I hug this pride in the secret of my heart.
I sit upon 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 clamour of glory. It is 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?"
- Rabindranath Tagore -
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