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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=480060" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hands cling to hands and eyes linger<br>on eyes: thus begins the record of our<br>hearts.<br> It is the moonlit night of March;<br>the sweet smell of henna is in the air;<br>my flute lies on the earth neglected <br>and your garland of flowers is<br>unfinished.<br> This love between you and me is<br>simple as a song.<br> Your veil of the saffron colour<br>makes my eyes drunk.<br> The jasmine wreath that you wove<br>me thrills to my heart like praise.<br> It is a game of giving and with-<br>holding, revealing and screening again;<br>some smiles and some little shyness,<br>and some sweet useless struggles.<br> This love between you and me is<br>simple as a song.<br> No mystery beyond the present;<br>no striving for the impossible; no<br>shadow behind the charm; no groping<br>in the depth of the dark.<br> This love between you and me is<br>simple as a song.<br> We do not stray out of all words<br>into the ever silent; we do not raise<br>our hands to the void for things<br>beyond hope.<br> It is enough what we give and we<br>get.<br> We have not crushed the joy to <br>the utmost to wring from it the wine<br>of pain.<br> This love between you and me is<br>simple as a song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rabindranath+Tagore">Rabindranath Tagore</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=480060" data-title="The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes de Rabindranath Tagore" data-description="Hands cling to hands and eyes linger
on eyes: thus begins the record of our
hearts.
 It is the moonlit night of March;
the sweet smell of henna is in the air;
my flute lies on the earth neglected 
and your garland of flowers is
unfinished.
 This l..."></div>
</div>
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