Gitanjali 86

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 

heart.

   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.