Rabindranath Tagore
In the deep shadows of the rainy July,
With secret steps,
Thou walkest, silent
As night, eluding all watchers.
To-day the morning has closed its eyes,
Heedless of the insistent calls of the loud east wind,
And a thick veil has been drawn over the eve-wakeful blue sky.
The woodlands have hushed their songs,
And doors are all shut at every house.
Thou art the solitary wayfarer in this deserted street.
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, My Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—Oh my only friend,
My Best beloved,
The gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.