The little fluit




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.

By Rabindranath Tagore
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