Crossing 66
You came to my door in the dawn and
sang; it angered me to be awakened
from sleep, and you went away
unheeded.
You came in the noon and asked for
water; it vexed me in my work, and
you were sent away with reproaches.
You came in the evening with your flaming torches.
You seemed to me like a terror and I
shut my door.
Now in the midnight I sit alone in my
lampless room and call you back
whom I turned away in insult.
About Tagore (1915-1941) here.