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Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore

The Gardener: 49

I hold her hands and press her to my breast.
I try to fill my arms with her loveliness, to plunder her sweet smile with kisses, to drink her dark glances with my eyes.
Ah, but, where is it?  Who can strain the blue from the sky?
I try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me, leaving only the body in my hands.
Baffled and weary I come back.
How can the body touch the flower which only the spirit may touch?

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