The world is its poem, a rolling sonorous poem
In which a remote presage of joy annotates vast sorrow...
Where silently his beloved waits, watching the minutes,
The long days move.
Her room is closed: no road to look out on-
Her hope,
Worn out by waiting, lies in the dust.
The poet has given her pining no language,
Her love no pilgrimage-...

From Yaksa-by Rabindranath Tagore