She who ever had remained in the
depth of my being, in the twilight of
gleams and of glimpses; she who never
opened her veils in the morning light,
will be my last gift to thee, my God,
folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win
her; persuasion has stretched to her its
eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to
country keeping her in the core of my
heart, and around her have risen and
fallen the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my
slumbers and dreams, she reigned yet
dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door
and asked for her and turned away in
There was none in the world who
ever saw her face to face, and she
remained in her loneliness waiting for
From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Company, 1916) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.