To the Stream
by Rabindranath Tagore

The day is no more,
the shadow is upon the earth.
It is time that I go
to the stream to fill my pitcher.

The evening air is eager
with the sad music of the water.
Ah, it calls me out into the dusk.
In the lonely lane
there is no passer-by, the wind is up,
the ripples are rampant in the river.

I know not if I shall come back home.
I know not whom I shall chance to meet.
There at the fording in the little boat
the unknown man plays upon his lute.