Time after time
I came to your gate with raised hands,
asking for more and yet more.

You gave and gave,
now in slow measure, now in sudden excess.
I took some, and some things I let drop;
some lay heavy on my hands;
some I made into playthings and broke them when tired;
till the wrecks and the hoard of your gifts grew immense,
hiding you,
and the ceaseless expectation wore my heart out.

Take, oh take--has now become my cry.
Shatter all from this beggar's bowl;
put out this lamp of the importunate watcher;
hold my hands, raise me
from the still-gathering heap of your gifts
into the bare infinity of your uncrowded presence.

--Rabindranath Tagore