The Gardener, # 85
Rabindranath Tagore

Who are you, reader, reading my poems a hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of
gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an
hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending
its glad voice across a hundred years.

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