Gitanjali 74

The day is no more, the shadow is upon
the earth. It is time that I go to the
stream to fill my pitcher.
    The evening air is eager with the sad
music of the water. Ah, it calls me out
into the dusk. In the lonely lane there
is no passer by, the wind is up, the
ripples are rampant in the river.
    I know not if I shall come back
home. I know not whom I shall
chance to meet. There at the fording
in the little boat the unknown man
plays upon his lute.

From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Company, 1916) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.