The Crescent Moon

The Crescent Moon

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Title: The Crescent Moon
Author: Rabindranath Tagore (trans.)
Release Date: September, 2004 [EBook #6520] [Yes, we are more than
one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on December 25,
2002]

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The Crescent Moon
By Rabindranath Tagore
Translated from the original Bengali by the author
with eight illustrations in colour
London and New York: Macmillan and Company, 1913
TO T. STURGE MOORE
[Frontispiece: From a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see cbeach.jpg]

CONTENTS
THE HOME ON THE SEASHORE THE SOURCE BABY'S WAY
THE UNHEEDED PAGEANT SLEEP-STEALER THE BEGINNING
BABY'S WORLD WHEN AND WHY DEFAMATION THE JUDGE
PLAYTHINGS THE ASTRONOMER CLOUDS AND WAVES THE
CHAMPA FLOWER FAIRYLAND THE LAND OF THE EXILE
THE RAINY DAY PAPER BOATS THE SAILOR THE FURTHER
BANK THE FLOWER-SCHOOL THE MERCHANT SYMPATHY

VOCATION SUPERIOR THE LITTLE BIG MAN TWELVE
O'CLOCK AUTHORSHIP THE WICKED POSTMAN THE HERO
THE END THE RECALL THE FIRST JASMINES THE BANYAN
TREE BENEDICTION THE GIFT MY SONG THE CHILD-ANGEL
THE LAST BARGAIN

LIST OF COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
FRONTISPIECE THE HOME THE BEGINNING FAIRYLAND
PAPER BOATS THE MERCHANT THE HERO BENEDICTION

INDEX OF THE FIRST LINES
Ah, these jasmines Ah, who was it coloured that little frock Bless this
little heart Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust Come and hire
me Day by day I float my paper boats I am small because I am a little
child If baby only wanted to, he could fly If I were only a little puppy If
people came to know where my king's palace is I long to go over there
Imagine, mother I only said, "When in the evening" I paced alone It is
time for me to go, mother I want to give you something, my child I
wish I could take a quiet corner Mother, I do want to leave off my
lessons Mother, let us imagine we are travelling Mother, the folk who
live up in the clouds Mother, the light has grown grey Mother, your
baby is silly On the seashore of endless worlds O you shaggy-headed
banyan tree Say of him what you please Sullen clouds are gathering
Supposing I became a champa flower The boat of the boatman
Madhu The night was dark when we went away The sleep that flits on
baby's eyes They clamour and fight This song of mine When I bring
you coloured toys When storm clouds When the gong sounds ten
Where have I come from Who stole sleep from baby's eyes Why are
those tears in your eyes, my child Why do you sit there on the floor
You say that father writes a lot of books

[Illustration: The Home--from a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see

chome.jpg]
THE HOME
I paced alone on the road across the field while the sunset was hiding
its last gold like a miser.
The daylight sank deeper and deeper into the darkness, and the
widowed land, whose harvest had been reaped, lay silent.
Suddenly a boy's shrill voice rose into the sky. He traversed the dark
unseen, leaving the track of his song across the hush of the evening.
His village home lay there at the end of the waste land, beyond the
sugar-cane field, hidden among the shadows of the banana and the
slender areca palm, the cocoa-nut and the dark green jack-fruit trees.
I stopped for a moment in my lonely way under the starlight, and saw
spread before me the darkened earth surrounding with her arms
countless homes furnished with cradles and beds, mothers' hearts and
evening lamps, and young lives glad with a gladness that knows
nothing of its value for the world.