Thou hast made me endless,
such is thy pleasure.
This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again,
and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou
hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through
it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands
my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me
only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest,
and still there is room to fill.
~Rabindranath Tagore
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