Ah me, why did they build my <br />house by the road to the market <br />town? <br /> They moor their laden boats near <br />my trees. <br /> They come and go and wander at <br />their will. <br /> I sit and watch them; my time <br />wears on. <br /> Turn them away I cannot. And <br />thus my days pass by. <br /> Night and day their steps sound <br />by my door. <br /> Vainly I cry, "I do not know <br />you." <br /> Some of them are known to my <br />fingers, some to my nostrils, the <br />blood in my veins seems to know <br />them, and some are known to my <br />dreams. <br /> Turn them away I cannot. I call <br />them and say, "Come to my house <br />whoever chooses. Yes, come." <br /> In the morning the bell rings in the <br />temple. <br /> They come with their baskets in <br />their hands. <br /> Their feet are rosy red. The early <br />light of dawn is on their faces. <br /> Turn them away I cannot. I call <br />them and I say, "Come to my garden <br />to gather flowers. Come hither." <br /> In the mid-day the gong sounds <br />at the palace gate. <br /> I know not why they leave their <br />work and linger near my hedge. <br /> The flowers in their hair are pale <br />and faded; the notes are languid in <br />their flutes. <br /> Turn them away I cannot. I call <br />them and say, "The shade is cool <br />under my trees. Come, friends." <br /> At night the crickets chirp in the <br />woods. <br /> Who is it that comes slowly to my <br />door and gently knocks? <br /> I vaguely see the face, not a word <br />is spoken, the stillness of the sky is <br />all around. <br /> Turn away my silent guest I <br />cannot. I look at the face through the <br />dark, and hours of dreams pass by.<br /><br />Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gardener-iv-ah-me/
