She Dwelt Here by the Pool

She dwelt here by the pool, with its landing-stairs in ruins.
Many an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of bamboo leaves,
and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth had come to her over the young shoots of rice.

Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves, and in the courtyards
where girls sit and talk while stitching their winter quilts.
The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory of her swimming limbs,
and her wet feet had left their marks, day after day, on the footpath leading to the village.

The women who come today with their vessels to the water have all seen her smile over simple jests,
and the old peasant, taking his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to greet her.

Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller takes rest beneath that banyan tree;
the ferry-boat crosses to yonder ford carrying crowds to the market;
but they never notice this spot by the village road,
near the pool with its ruined landing-stairs,
- where dwelt she whom I love.

~ A poem by Rabindranath Tagore

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