Page:Chitra - Rabindranath Tagore.djvu/51



Hero mine, the year is not yet full, and you are tired already! Now I know that it is Heaven’s blessing that has made the flower’s term of life short. Could this body of mine have drooped and died with the flowers of last spring it surely would have died with honour. Yet, its days are numbered, my love. Spare it not, press it dry of honey, for fear your beggar’s heart come back to it again and again with unsated desire, like a thirsty bee when summer blossoms lie dead in the dust.