The Gardener by Rabindranath Tagore SERVANT. Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!QUEEN. The assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Whydo you come at this late hour?SERVANT. When you have finished with others, that is my time.I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.QUEEN. What can you expect when it is too late?SERVANT. Make me the gardener of your flower garden.QUEEN. What folly is this?SERVANT. I will give up my other work.I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not sendme to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests.But make me the gardener of your flower garden.QUEEN. What will your duties be?SERVANT. The service of your idle days.I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step bythe flowers eager for death.I will swing you in a swing among the branches of thesaptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggleto kiss your skirt through the leaves.I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by yourbedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffronpaste in wondrous designs.QUEEN. What will you have for your reward?SERVANT. To be allowed to hold your little fists like tenderlotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tingethe soles of your feet with the red juice of ashokapetals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance tolinger there.QUEEN. Your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be thegardener of my flower garden. 2 "Ah, poet, the evening draws near; your hair is turning grey."Do you in your lonely musing hear the message of the hereafter?""It is evening," the poet said, "and I am listening because someone may call from the village, late though it be."I watch if young straying hearts meet together, and two pairs ofeager eyes beg for music to break their silence and speak forthem."Who is there to weave their passionate songs, if I sit on theshore of life and contemplate death and the beyond?"The early evening star disappears."The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river."Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted housein the light of the worn-out moon."If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night andwith bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who isthere to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I, shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?"It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey."I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest ofthis village."Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle intheir eyes."Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tearsthat are hidden in the gloom.They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over theafterlife. We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.