the gardener 85

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Who are you, reader, reading my poems an 
hundred years hence? 

I cannot send you one single flower from this 
wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold 
from yonder clouds. 
 
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant 
memories of the vanished flowers of an 
hundred years before.
 
In the joy of your heart may you feel the 
living joy that sang one spring morning, 
sending its glad voice across a 
hundred years.


–Rabindranath Tagore 

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