She dwelt here by the pool with its landing-stairs in ruins. Many <br />an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of <br />bamboo leaves, and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth <br />had come to her over the young shoots of rice. <br /> Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves and <br />in the courtyards where girls sit and talk while stitching their <br />winter quilts. The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory <br />of her swimming limbs, and her wet feet had left their marks, day <br />after day, on the footpath leading to the village. <br /> The women who come to-day with their vessels to the water have <br />all seen her smile over simple jests, and the old peasant, taking <br />his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to <br />greet her. <br /> Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller <br />takes rest beneath that banyan tree; the ferry-boat crosses to <br />yonder ford carrying crowds to the market; but they never notice <br />this spot by the village road, near the pool with its ruined <br />landing-stairs,-where dwelt she whom I love.<br /><br />Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lover-s-gifts-xvi-she-dwelt-here-by-the-pool/
