(After Rabindranath Tagore)
One morning I was walking in the park
Amongst the flowers that were lifting high
Their faces to the sun, when came a maid,
Whose eyes told me the light for her was dark.
She offered me a rose with manner shy,
Her little hand upon my coatsleeve laid.
“Is this for me?” I asked, and I did mark
The faintest blush , the nodding head. “But why?”
And then I stooped to kiss her, and I said,
“This lovely flower, like you, can see no spark,
No glimmer of the world where it did grow :
It does not heed the beauty of the flowers.
And you, not seeing, can you ever know
The beauty of your gift, and what is yours?”
Weekly Times 10.8.62