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
eludes.
For a 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 forever. But a gift that can be
grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with a flame that will
flicker.

Rabindranath Tagore