ON A SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY* BY ANNE P. L. FIELD To-day my tall broad-shouldered lad, Is not a saddening sight to see, Yet I have lost, long years between, My little boy that used to be! How well-remembered and how glad When all the singing world was green; I welcomed my maternity He was the sweetest ever seen My little boy that used to be! And just a trifle vain, I ween,— Showing his new suit to his "dad," As male birds their fine feathers preen. His curls had such a golden sheen, And by his crib on bended knee I'd pray God's love from harm would screen ENVOY O son upon whose strength I lean, MY SONG* BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love. This song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing. When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness. My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams, it will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown. It will be like a faithful star overhead when dark 'night is over your road. My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes, and will carry your sight into the heart of things. And when my voice is silent in death, my song will speak in your living heart. * Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company. THE GIFT * BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE I want to give you something my child, for we are drifting in the stream of the world. Our lives will be carried apart, and our love forgotten. But I am not so foolish as to hope that I could buy your heart with gifts. Young is your life, your path long, and you drink the love we bring you at one draught and turn and run away from us. You have your play and your playmates. What harm is there if you have no time or thought for us? We, indeed, have leisure enough in old age to count the days that are past, to cherish in our hearts what our hands have lost forever. The river runs swift with a song, breaking through all barriers. But the mountain stays and remembers, and follows her with his love. * Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company. BABY'S WAY * BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE 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 knows 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 that 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. * Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company. THE RECALL * BY RABINDRANATH TAGORE The night was dark when she went away, and they slept. The night is dark now, and I call for her, "Come back, my darling; the world is asleep; and no one would know, if you came for a moment while stars are gazing at stars." She went away when the trees were in bud and the spring was young. Now the flowers are in high bloom and I call, "Come back, my darling. The children gather and scatter flowers in reckless sport. And if you come and take one little blossom no one will miss it." Those that used to play are playing still, so spendthrift is life. I listen to their chatter and call, "Come back, my darling, for mother's heart is full to the brim with love, and if you come to snatch only one little kiss from her no one will grudge it." * Copyrighted 1913 by The Macmillan Company. SOME TIME* BY EUGENE FIELD Last night, my darling, as you slept, I thought I heard you sigh, And to your little crib I crept, And watched a space thereby; Then, bending down, I kissed your brow — For, oh! I love you so You are too young to know it now, But some time you shall know. Some time, when, in a darkened place Where others come to weep, Your eyes shall see a weary face Calm in eternal sleep; The speechless lips, the wrinkled brow, The patient smile may show |