From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 24, 1913. By Rabindranath Tagore.
Ah, who is she who dwells in my heart, the woman sorrowing ever?
I wooed her and I failed.
I decked her with wreaths and sang songs in her praise.
A smile shone in her face for a moment, then it faded.
“I have no joy in thee,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I bought jeweled anklets for her feet and fanned her with a fan gem-studded;
I made for her a bed on a golden couch.
There flickered a gleam of gladness in her eyes, then it died.
“I have no joy in them,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I seated her upon a car of victory, and drove her from end to end of the earth.
Conquered hearts bowed down at her feet, and shouts of applause rang in the sky.
Pride shone in her eyes for a moment, then it was dimmed in tears.
“I have no joy in conquests,” she cried, the woman in sorrow.
I asked her, “Tell me, whom is it thou seekest?”
She only said, “I do not know his name.”
Days pass by and she weeps.
“When will my beloved come whom I know not, and be known to me forever?” she cries, the woman in sorrow.