I was walking by the road, I do not know why, when the noonday was past and bamboo branches rustled in the wind.
The prone shadows with their out-stretched arms clung to the feet of the hurrying light.
The koels were weary of their songs.
I was walking by the road, I do not know why.
 
The hut by the side of the water is shaded by an overhanging tree.
Some one was busy with her work, and her bangles made music in the corner.
I stood before this hut, I know not why.
 
The narrow winding road crosses many a mustard field, and many a mango forest.
It passes by the temple of the village and the market at the river landing place.
I stopped by this hut, I do not know why.
 
Years ago it was a day of breezy March when the murmur of the spring was languorous, and mango blossoms were dropping on the dust.
The rippling water leapt and licked the brass vessel that stood on the landing step.
I think of that day of breezy March, I do not know why.
 
Shadows are deepening and cattle returning to their folds.
The light is grey upon the lonely meadows, and the villagers are waiting for the ferry at the bank.
I slowly return upon my steps, I do not know why.

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The gardener
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