Gitanjali 88

Deity of the ruined temple! The

broken strings of Vina sing no more

your praise. The bells in the evening

proclaim not your time of worship. 

The air is still and silent about you.

   In your desolate dwelling comes the

vagrant spring breeze. It brings the 

tidings of flowers-the flowers that for

your worship are offered no more. 

   Your worshipper of old wanders ever 

longing for favour still refused. In the 

eventide, when fires and shadows mingle 

with the gloom of dust, he wearily 

comes back to the ruined temple with

hunger in his heart.

   Many a festival day comes to you

in silence, deity of the ruined temple.

Many a night of worship goes away 

with lamp unlit.

   Many new images are built by 

masters of cunning art and carried to

the holy stream of oblivion when their 

time is come.

   Only the deity of the ruined temple

remains unworshipped in deathless

neglect.