The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

      But the stars are singing the love-song of the eternal to a face sweet with shame and suffering.

      The door has been opened in the lonely chamber, the call has sounded, and the heart of the darkness throbs with awe because of the coming tryst.

LXXXVI: THANKSGIVING

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      Those who walk on the path of pride crushing the lowly life under their tread, covering the tender green of the earth with their footprints in blood;

      Let them rejoice, and thank thee, Lord, for the day is theirs.

      But I am thankful that my lot lies with the humble who suffer and bear the burden of power, and hide their faces and stifle their sobs in the dark.

      For every throb of their pain has pulsed in the secret depth of thy night, and every insult has been gathered into thy great silence. And the morrow is theirs.

      O Sun, rise upon the bleeding hearts blossoming in flowers of the morning, and the torchlight revelry of pride shrunken to ashes.

      THE CRESCENT MOON

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       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 HOME

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      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

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