The Gardener gathers eighty-five short prose-poems that Tagore rendered into English from Bengali lyrics he had written earlier than the religious poems of Gitanjali. In a brief preface he notes that the translations are not always literal: the originals are sometimes abridged and sometimes paraphrased. The result reads as a companion volume turned toward this world rather than the next, dealing with love and life instead of worship.
The opening poem sets the title's image. A servant begs his queen to make him the gardener of her flower garden, asking only to tend her idle days and to be near her. From there the book moves through the ordinary stations of love: the meeting of hands and eyes, courtship and play, jealousy and shyness, the woman who flings her jewel before a passing prince, and the simple love that asks for no mystery beyond the present hour.
Running alongside the love poems is a strain of restless longing. The speaker is athirst for far-away things and answers a keen call he cannot place, forgetting that he has no wings and does not know the road. A tame bird and a free bird love across the bars of a cage but can never fly wing to wing. A wanderer hunts a golden stag he will never catch. Desire here is rarely satisfied, and the poems hold that incompleteness without resolving it.
Tagore does not flinch from sorrow or from time. One voice urges the listener to trust love even if it brings sorrow, since pleasure is frail while sorrow is strong and abiding. Another remembers a paper boat sunk by a childhood storm and the many games of life in which the speaker was the loser. The poems keep returning to the fact that flowers fade, streams are dammed, and harp-strings break when forced past their power.
The book closes on the seasons of a whole life. Because none lives forever and nothing lasts for long, the speaker tells his brother to keep that in mind and rejoice, gathering quick kisses and futile songs before the winds plunder them. He asks that the time of parting be sweet, that love melt into memory and pain into songs. The final poem speaks across a hundred years to a future reader, sending only the living joy that once sang on a spring morning.