Every Thursday, I shall read one of Tagore's poems as translated in this book or some other poem I can find. I shall post some lines from the poem and perhaps a detail of how I liked this poem or not. Any others who want to join in this meme are absolutely welcome to do so!
This is an extract from a lovely poem called Sunday:
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and others -
grim-faced old stewpots!
They don't like little boys. With us
they are always cross!
But as I get up in the morning
at the end of Saturday night,
who should I spy but Sunday,
her face lit up by a smile!
How she cries when she says goodbye
and gazes with yearning at us!
Like you, Mum, she must be
the daughter of a poor family.
It's amazingly simple and beautiful and dwells on the familiar feeling that Sunday runs away fast before we realize it while the rest of the days crawl. Tagore has an interesting explanation for it, that of Sunday being the daughter of a poor family who delays reaching her destination probably because her house is farthest from the others and leaves fast because she has more chores than the others.
I enjoyed reading it and will be sure to remember it every time I yearn for the weekend! :)