From I won’t let you go by Rabindranath Tagore

From I Won’t let you go by Rabindranath Tagore * Beside the door, wrapped in her thoughts, there sat My daughter, four years old. On other days She’d have had her bath before this, and her eyes, Before she’d swallowed scarce two mouthfuls of Her mid-day rice, been shut in sleep. Today Her mother had not seen to her: even now She had not bathed or eaten, but like a shadow hugged my steps all this time, watching each move With mute unblinking eyes. Worn out at last, She now sat silently beside the door With who knows what intent: and when I said ‘I’m leaving, little mother,’ with sad eyes And pale look answered, ‘I won’t let you go.’ She sat where she was, neither clutched my hand Nor shut the door; only declared the right Born of her hearts’s love: ‘I won’t let you go.’ Yet the time came to an end, and she, alas, Could not but let me. O my foolish girl, Who are you? Where could you have drawn such strength To say so boldly,