Come to My Garden Walk.

Come to my garden walk, my love. Pass by the fervid flowers that

press themselves on your sight. Pass them by, stopping at some

chance joy, which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet elude.


For lover's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits
across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.


Overtake it or miss it for ever. But a gift that can be
grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with flame that will flicker.


Rabindranath Tagore