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- Herausgeber: E-BOOKARAMA
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
"The Crescent Moon", written in 1913, is a wonderful collection of lyrical poetry and poetry in prose by India's most well-known poet, Rabindranath Tagore, whose book "Gitanjali" shot him to fame in the west.
Originally written in Bengali, the poet himself translated the book into English. Most of the poems in "The Crescent Moon" focus on the love in a mother-child relationship and its development over the years as the child grows up, with a lot of nature imagery sprinkled in the verses. There are a lot of beautiful visual references to his homeland, India.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Table of contents
THE CRESCENT MOON
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
THE CRESCENT MOON
Rabindranath Tagore
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.
On The Seashore
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet.
The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.
They build their houses with sand, and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.
They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl-fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. They seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.
The sea surges up with laughter, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby's cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea-beach.
On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships are wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.
The Source
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes--does anybody know from where it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where, in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it comes to kiss baby's eyes.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
The sweet, soft freshness that blooms on baby's limbs--does anybody know where it was hidden so long? Yes, when the mother was a young girl it lay pervading her heart in tender and silent mystery of love--the sweet, soft freshness that has bloomed on baby's limbs.
