Death, thy servant, is at my door.
He has crossed the unknown sea and
brought thy call to my home.
The night is dark and my heart is
fearful-yet I will take up the lamp,
open my gates and bow to him my
welcome. It is thy messenger who
stands at my door.
I will worship him with folded hands,
and with tears. I will worship him
placing at his feet the treasure of my
He will go back with his errand done,
leaving a dark shadow on my morning;
and in my desolate home only my
forlorn self will remain as my last
offering to thee.
From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1913) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.