The Gardener (Tagore)/57
57
I plucked your flower, O world!
I pressed it to my heart and the thorn pricked.
When the day waned and it darkened, I found that the flower had faded, but the pain remained.
More flowers will come to you with perfume and pride, O world!
But my time for flower-gathering is over, and through the dark night I have not my rose, only the pain remains.