If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I, shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?
It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey. I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of this village. Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in their eyes. Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears that are hidden in the gloom. They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the afterlife. I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?
Rabindranath Tagore
It is a trifle that my hair is turning grey. I am ever as young or as old as the youngest and the oldest of this village. Some have smiles, sweet and simple, and some a sly twinkle in their eyes. Some have tears that well up in the daylight, and others tears that are hidden in the gloom. They all have need for me, and I have no time to brood over the afterlife. I am of an age with each, what matter if my hair turns grey?
Rabindranath Tagore
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