THE NIGHT deepens and the dying flame flickers in the lamp. I forgot to notice when the evening-like a village girl who has filled her pitcher at the river a last time for that day-closed the door on her cabin. I was speaking to you, my love, with mind barely conscious of my voice-tell me, had it any meaning? Did it bring you any message from beyond life's borders? For now, since my voice has ceased, I feel the night throbbing with thoughts that gaze in awe at the abyss of their dumbness.
SHE IS OUR own, the darling of our hearts, Santiniketan. Our dreams are rocked in her arms. Her face is a fresh wonder of love every time we see her, for she is our own, the darling of our hearts. In the shadows of her trees we meet in the freedom of her open sky. Her mornings come and her evenings bringing down heaven's kisses, making us feel anew that she is our own, the darling of our hearts. The stillness of her shades is stirred by the woodland whisper; her amlaki groves are aquiver with the rapture of leaves. She dwells in us and around us, however far we may wander. She weaves our hearts in a song, making us one in music, tuning our strings of love with her own fingers; and we ever remember that she is our own, the darling of our hearts.
