Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941)
Playthings
1Child, how happy you are sitting in the dust, playing with a broken twig all the morning.
2I smile at your play with that little bit of a broken twig.
3I am busy with my accounts, adding up figures by the hour.
4Perhaps you glance at me and think, "What a stupid game to spoil your morning with!"
5Child, I have forgotten the art of being absorbed in sticks and mud-pies.
6I seek out costly playthings, and gather lumps of gold and silver.
7With whatever you find you create your glad games, I spend both my time and my strength over things I never can obtain.
8In my frail canoe I struggle to cross the sea of desire, and forget that I too am playing a game.
Online text copyright © 2009, Ian Lancashire (the Department of English) and the University of Toronto.
Published by the Web Development Group, Information Technology Services, University of Toronto Libraries.
Original text: Sir Rabindranath Tagore, The Crescent Moon
(London: Macmillan, 1918): 23-24. PR 6039 A2C7 Robarts Library
First publication date:
1918
RPO poem editor: Ian Lancashire
RP edition: 2002
Recent editing: 1:2002/4/28
Rhyme: unrhyming
Other poems by Rabindranath Tagore
