পাতা:Original manuscript of Gitanjali - Rabindranath Tagore - Rothenstein collection.pdf/১৫৯

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 I thought I should ask of thee – but I dared not ― the rose wreath thou hadst on thy neck. Thus I waited for the morning, when thou departest, to find a few fragments on the bed. And like a beggar I searched in the dawn only for a stray petal or two.

 Ah me, what is it I find! What token left of thy love! It is no flower, no spices, no vase of perfumed water. It is thy mighty sword flashing as a flame, heavy as a bolt of thunder. The young light of morning comes through the window and spreads itself upon thy bed. The morning bird twitters and asks “Woman, what hast thou got?” No, it is nor flower, nor spices, nor a vase of perfumed water – it is thy dreadful sword.

 I sit and muse in wonder, what gift is this of thine! I can find no place where to hide it. I am ashamed to wear it, frail as I am, and it hurts me when I press it to my bosom. yet shall I fear in my heart this honour of the burden of pain, this