Tagore's Gitanjali ,POEM NO. 82

TIME is endless in thy hands, my lord. 

There is none to count thy minutes. Days and nights pass and ages bloom and fade like flowers. 

Thou knowest how to wait. 

Thy centuries follow each other perfecting a small wild flower. We have no time to lose, and having no time we must scramble for our chances. 

We are too poor to be late. And thus it is that time goes by while I give it to every querulous   man who claims it, 

and thine altar is empty of all offerings to the last. 

At the end of the day I hasten in fear lest thy gate be shut; but I find that yet there is time. 

Tagore's Gitanjali,poem no. 83

MOTHER, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck with my tears of sorrow. 

The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet, but mine will hang upon thy breast. 

Wealth and fame come from thee and it is for thee to give or to withhold them. 

But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own, and when I bring it to thee as my offering thou rewardest me with thy grace.