The Crescent Moon
拉宾德拉纳特·泰戈尔 / Rabindranath Tagore
The Home
I paced alone on the road across the f？ield 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 f？ield， hidden among the shadows of the banana and the slender areca-palm， the coconut 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.
The Beginning
“Where have I come from， where did you pick me up？ the baby asked its mother.
“You were hidden in my heart as its desire， my darling. And he answered half crying， half laughing， and clasping the baby to her breast.
“You were in the dolls of my childhood’s games； and when with clay I made the image of my god every morning， I made and unmade you then.
“You were enshrined with our household deity， in his worship I worshipped you.
“In all my hopes and my loves， in my life， in the life of my mother you have lived.
“In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have been nursed for ages.
“When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals， you hovered as a fragrance about it.
“Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs， like a glow in the sky before the sunrise.
“Heaven’s f？irst darling， twin-born with the morning light， you have f？loated down the stream of the world’s life and at last you have stranded on my heart.