Baby's Way

 

Baby's Way

If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment.

It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.

He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever

bear to lose sight of her.

Baby know all manner of wise words, though few on earth can

understand their meaning.

It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.

The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from

mother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent.

Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar

on to this earth.

It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise.

This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly

helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.

Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny

crescent moon.

It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.

He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little

corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught

and pressed in her dear arms.

Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect

bliss.

It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears.

Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's

yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles

weave the double bond of pity and love.

---- Rabindranath Tagore

Authorship

 You say that father write a lot of books, but what he writes I don't

understand.

He was reading to you all 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 call him

a 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

then, mother?

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 make 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

---- Rabindranath Tagore