The Essential Works of Tagore. Rabindranath Tagore

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid in my heart and cling to you.

      When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale.

      Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of what hills, in the kingdom of what king?

      There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load to the market. With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies the desert of Tepântar.

      I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace across that unknown water.

      When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale?

      See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and there are no travellers yonder on the village road.

      The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their huts, watching the scowling clouds.

      Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf--do not ask me to do my lessons now.

      When I grow up and am big like my father, I shall learn all that must be learnt.

      But just for to-day, tell me, mother, where the desert of Tepântar in the fairy tale is?

THE RAINY DAY

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      Sullen clouds are gathering fast over the black fringe of the forest.

      O child, do not go out!

      The palm trees in a row by the lake are smiting their heads against the dismal sky; the crows with their draggled wings are silent on the tamarind branches, and the eastern bank of the river is haunted by a deepening gloom.

      Our cow is lowing loud, tied at the fence.

      O child, wait here till I bring her into the stall.

      Men have crowded into the flooded field to catch the fishes as they escape from the overflowing ponds; the rain water is running in rills through the narrow lanes like a laughing boy who has run away from his mother to tease her.

      Listen, someone is shouting for the boatman at the ford.

      O child, the daylight is dim, and the crossing at the ferry is closed.

      The sky seems to ride fast upon the madly-rushing rain; the water in the river is loud and impatient; women have hastened home early from the Ganges with their filled pitchers.

      The evening lamps must be made ready.

      O child, do not go out!

      The road to the market is desolate, the lane to the river is slippery. The wind is roaring and struggling among the bamboo branches like a wild beast tangled in a net.

PAPER BOATS

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      Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running stream.

      In big black letters I write my name on them and the name of the village where I live.

      I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and know who I am.

      I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from our garden, and hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land in the night.

      I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the little clouds setting their white bulging sails.

      I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down the air to race with my boats!

      When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.

      The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading is their baskets full of dreams.

THE SAILOR

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      The boat of the boatman Madhu is moored at the wharf of Rajgunj.

      It is uselessly laden with jute, and has been lying there idle for ever so long.

      If he would only lend me his boat, I should man her with a hundred oars, and hoist sails, five or six or seven.

      I should never steer her to stupid markets. I should sail the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

      But, mother, you won't weep for me in a corner.

      I am not going into the forest like Ramachandra to come back only after fourteen years.

      I shall become the prince of the story, and fill my boat with whatever I like.

      I shall take my friend Ashu with me. We shall sail merrily across the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

      We shall set sail in the early morning light.

      When at noontide you are bathing at the pond, we shall be in the land of a strange king.

      We shall pass the ford of Tirpurni, and leave behind us the desert of Tepântar.

      When we come back it will be getting dark, and I shall tell you of all that we have seen.

      I shall cross the seven seas and the thirteen rivers of fairyland.

THE FURTHER BANK

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      I long to go over there to the further bank of the river,

      Where those boats are tied to the bamboo poles in a line;

      Where men cross over in their boats in the morning with ploughs on their shoulders to till their far-away fields;

      Where the cowherds make their lowing cattle swim across to the riverside pasture;

      Whence they СКАЧАТЬ