You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
written by Rabindranath Tagore, published on Wed 06.22.2011 at 22:18
You walked by the riverside path
with the full pitcher upon your hip.
Why did you swiftly turn your face
written by Rabindranath Tagore, published on Thu 06.16.2011 at 02:23
The day was when I did not keep myself in readiness for thee;
and entering my heart unbidden even as one of the common crowd,
written by Rabindranath Tagore, published on Wed 06.15.2011 at 07:53
Are you a mere picture, and not as true as those stars, true as
this dust? They throb with the pulse of things, but you are
written by Rabindranath Tagore, published on Fri 06.10.2011 at 06:49
Dying, you have left behind you the great sadness of the EternalRead poem...
written by Rabindranath Tagore, published on Sun 05.29.2011 at 13:58
I hunt for the golden stag.
You may smile, my friends, but I
pursue the vision that eludes me.