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Crescent Moon
As the twentieth century dawns, young Jeremy Callahan, fascinated by airplanes and longing to leave his old-fashioned home to join the modern world, learns some important lessons from his woodcarver uncle as he helps him craft a statue.
208 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1913
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews
May 28, 2014
Of the seemingly governing heavenly bodies that grace our diurnal lives, it is, in innumerable instances, the Moon that stands as the epitome of womanhood, and by necessary operation, motherhood. Father Sun and Mother Moon and Children Stars, so it would go. The raison d’etre for such association is conspicuous. The moonlight always seemed so intuitive, warm, subtle and welcoming, as warm as a mother’s embrace, as welcome as a mother’s love.
The crescent moon, which follows a new moon, would suggest new beginnings. But in the cyclic fabric of the Lunar phases, everything may, inevitably, stand for beginnings and endings.
This is what The Crescent Moon contains, poems and rhapsodies about motherhood and their children in varying degrees of this supreme bond. Verses talk about a baby’s heavenly birth, a child’s charming precociousness, a mother’s concern, and the inevitable bittersweet sadness over the emotional transition of a child growing up, the beginnings and endings of the mother and child relationship. This explores the beauty of the child’s world and the boundless nature of a mother’s love. These are the pervasive themes in this book.
“I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.” (18)
The 4 star rating should suffice to validate that beyond Gitanjali, Tagore’s sublime touch and masterful grace is still present.
This is my most favored among the lot.
THE BEGINNING
"WHERE have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked its mother.
She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast,-- "You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.
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 first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you have stranded on my heart.
As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to all have become mine.
“For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?”
Other works by Rabindranath Tagore:
The Gardener (4 Stars)
Gitanjali (4 Stars)
Nationalism (3 Stars)
This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Laureates
This review, along with my other reviews, has been posted at imbookedindefinitely
The crescent moon, which follows a new moon, would suggest new beginnings. But in the cyclic fabric of the Lunar phases, everything may, inevitably, stand for beginnings and endings.
This is what The Crescent Moon contains, poems and rhapsodies about motherhood and their children in varying degrees of this supreme bond. Verses talk about a baby’s heavenly birth, a child’s charming precociousness, a mother’s concern, and the inevitable bittersweet sadness over the emotional transition of a child growing up, the beginnings and endings of the mother and child relationship. This explores the beauty of the child’s world and the boundless nature of a mother’s love. These are the pervasive themes in this book.
“I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind, and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, and Truth sets Fact free from its fetters.” (18)
The 4 star rating should suffice to validate that beyond Gitanjali, Tagore’s sublime touch and masterful grace is still present.
This is my most favored among the lot.
THE BEGINNING
"WHERE have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked its mother.
She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast,-- "You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.
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 first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you have floated down the stream of the world's life, and at last you have stranded on my heart.
As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to all have become mine.
“For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?”
Other works by Rabindranath Tagore:
The Gardener (4 Stars)
Gitanjali (4 Stars)
Nationalism (3 Stars)
This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Laureates
This review, along with my other reviews, has been posted at imbookedindefinitely
April 25, 2021
A collection of poems for children but I really do not think that these poems will be understood by them.
I feel most of these poems are meant for the parents. They're going to understand them better. They're going to appreciate it more.
These poems are a way of celebration of having kids and loving the way they are.
The poems focus on the way children are being treated, the way they're misunderstood, the way adults assume they know everything about them and how they're hurting their feelings.
I loved the mother-child bond that is being described in some parts. Innocent, pure and beautiful.
Just 63 pages but you will enjoy this collection more than you anticipate.
I feel most of these poems are meant for the parents. They're going to understand them better. They're going to appreciate it more.
These poems are a way of celebration of having kids and loving the way they are.
The poems focus on the way children are being treated, the way they're misunderstood, the way adults assume they know everything about them and how they're hurting their feelings.
I loved the mother-child bond that is being described in some parts. Innocent, pure and beautiful.
Just 63 pages but you will enjoy this collection more than you anticipate.
August 29, 2008
I absolutely love Tagore's "Gitanjali" I was slightly underwelmed by this in comparison as several of the poems were quite, well, boring to me. However, a handful were absolutely exquisite! (Would be interesting to reread this as a mother.)
February 8, 2020
Esta colección de poemas nos deja ver a un Tagore con inocente voz de niño que mezcla dulzura e ilusión, así como el profundo dolor y el destructivo vacío que dejaron en su vida la muerte de su esposa y dos de sus hijos. La lectura es muy conmovedora.
September 5, 2023
“Jong is je leven, lang is je weg, en de liefde die wij je brengen, drink je in één teug en dan keer je je om en loopt van ons weg. Je hebt je spel en je kameraadjes. Wie zou je kwalijk nemen dat je geen tijd en geen gedachte hebt voor ons?”
September 27, 2025
Mijn exemplaar kreeg ik lang geleden en geeft nog steeds tedere gevoelens. Gevoelens over de dichter, het boekje en de gever.
August 26, 2012
One of the best writtings i have ever encountered. Nice little writeups establishing relations between nature, parental love and child. Its just enthralling to read about child's imagination from someone profound in art of converting thoughts in to the words.
One excerpt from the book :
Baby's way
......
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 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.
......
One more if you are still reading this, not the book yet:
Sympathy
...
IF I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away?
Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?"
Then, go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will never let you take me in your arms again.
....
One excerpt from the book :
Baby's way
......
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 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.
......
One more if you are still reading this, not the book yet:
Sympathy
...
IF I were only a little puppy, not your baby, mother dear, would you say "No" to me if I tried to eat from your dish?
Would you drive me off, saying to me, "Get away, you naughty little puppy?"
Then go, mother, go! I will never come to you when you call me, and never let you feed me any more.
If I were only a little green parrot, and not your baby, mother dear, would you keep me chained lest I should fly away?
Would you shake your finger at me and say, "What an ungrateful wretch of a bird! It is gnawing at its chain day and night?"
Then, go, mother, go! I will run away into the woods; I will never let you take me in your arms again.
....
November 28, 2015
Tender and lyrical Bengalese prose poems about both sides of the mother-child relationship.
The initial poems are from the mother's perspective, delighting in her baby at play and at rest, in laughter and in tears. Then the perspective shifts as the child grows, addressing its mother and trying to make sense of the adult world.
The imagery is rich in the nature of India, with constant references to the Ganges, banyan trees, the champa flower, jasmine and bamboo. The author translated it into english himself, so I don't think that much of the original atmosphere was lost.
I always wondered just what a prose poem is exactly. Now I think I know.
Here's a sample:
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
The initial poems are from the mother's perspective, delighting in her baby at play and at rest, in laughter and in tears. Then the perspective shifts as the child grows, addressing its mother and trying to make sense of the adult world.
The imagery is rich in the nature of India, with constant references to the Ganges, banyan trees, the champa flower, jasmine and bamboo. The author translated it into english himself, so I don't think that much of the original atmosphere was lost.
I always wondered just what a prose poem is exactly. Now I think I know.
Here's a sample:
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps--does anybody know where it was born? Yes, there is a rumour that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born in the dream of a dew-washed morning--the smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps.
October 3, 2013
Giving the Child a Voice of Tenderness
So respected has Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore's writings and philosophy been that he was the first Easterner to win the Nobel Prize. Though "Gitanjali" and "The Gardener" rank among his most famous works, this little gem is not to be overlooked. Tagore shows a sympathetic understanding of children's feelings and fantasy akin to Robert Louis Stevenson ("A Child's Garden of Verse"), Janusz Korczak ("King Matt" and "When I Am Little Again"), and Federico Garcia Lorca ("The Cricket Sings") in such poems as "The Home" and "Crescent Moon." Tagore's voice is one of patience, empathy, and tenderness.
So respected has Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore's writings and philosophy been that he was the first Easterner to win the Nobel Prize. Though "Gitanjali" and "The Gardener" rank among his most famous works, this little gem is not to be overlooked. Tagore shows a sympathetic understanding of children's feelings and fantasy akin to Robert Louis Stevenson ("A Child's Garden of Verse"), Janusz Korczak ("King Matt" and "When I Am Little Again"), and Federico Garcia Lorca ("The Cricket Sings") in such poems as "The Home" and "Crescent Moon." Tagore's voice is one of patience, empathy, and tenderness.
September 1, 2016
"And when my voice is silent in death,
my song will speak in your living heart."
my song will speak in your living heart."
February 11, 2022
THE WICKED POSTMAN
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me, mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in the town.
Only, father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
To-morrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters beautifully big.
When I finish my writing, do you think I shall be so foolish as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters.
THE END
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not here!”—mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.”
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja—presents and will ask,"Where is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.”
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me, mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost everybody in the town.
Only, father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
To-morrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters beautifully big.
When I finish my writing, do you think I shall be so foolish as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice letters.
THE END
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not here!”—mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.”
One the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall
flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja—presents and will ask,"Where is our baby, sister?" Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.”
October 10, 2025
“In mijn broze kano worstel ik om de zee van begeerte over te steken, en ik vergeet dat ik ook een spelletje speel.”
Read
December 7, 2025'«On és el nostre infant, germana?». Tu, mare, respondràs dolçament: «Està en les nines dels meus ulls, està en el meu cos i en la meva ànima».'
February 18, 2018
The poetry collection “The Crescent Moon” contains a number of introspective poems. Tagore wrestles with the world and his feelings, those around him and himself. My favorite poems are:
“The Home”
“When and Why”
“The End”
“My Song”
See my other reviews here!
“The Home”
I paced alone on the road across the field 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 wasteland, beyond the sugar-cane field, 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.
“When and Why”
When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there is such a play of coulours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are painted in tints—when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music in leaves, and why waves send their chorus of voices to the ehart of the listening earth—when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands, I know why there is honey in the cup of the flower, and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice—when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling, I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light, and what delight the summer breeze brings to my body—when I kiss you to make you smile.
“The End”
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.
When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, “Baby is not there!”—mother, I am going.
I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.
In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.
If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, “Sleep, mother, sleep.”
On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.
I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.
When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours’ children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.
Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, “Where is our baby, sister?” Mother, you will tell her softly, “He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul.”
“My Song”
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 ini your ear, when you are in the crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.
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 leaving heart.
See my other reviews here!
May 11, 2009
defamation
why are those tears in your eyes, my child?
how horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
you have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing -- is that why they call you dirty?
o,fie! would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
for every little trifle they blame you, my child. they are ready to find fault for nothing.
you tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you untidy?
o, fie! what would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
they make a long list of your misdeeds. everybody knows hos you love sweet things -- is that why they call you greedy?
o, fie!what then would they call us who love you? p.17
*i love this one
why are those tears in your eyes, my child?
how horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing?
you have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing -- is that why they call you dirty?
o,fie! would they dare to call the full moon dirty because it has smudged its face with ink?
for every little trifle they blame you, my child. they are ready to find fault for nothing.
you tore your clothes while playing--is that why they call you untidy?
o, fie! what would they call an autumn morning that smiles through its ragged clouds?
take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
they make a long list of your misdeeds. everybody knows hos you love sweet things -- is that why they call you greedy?
o, fie!what then would they call us who love you? p.17
*i love this one
May 25, 2014
There are many lovely poems in this collection, but strikes me most is the focus on the parent-child relationship. This is a pervasive theme throughout the book. There a wonderful poems exploring the beauty of a child's world, poems exploring challenges of the parent-child relationship, and poems of transitions and death in the parent-child relationship. Nearly every poem in this short collection brought thoughts, memories, and emotions connected to my sons. In general, this is a great poetry book, but for parents it is particularly a wonderful gem.
January 23, 2014
It is a collection of poems that center around a mother and her child, those tender words and language that pass between the two.
It has a few illustrations, the likes of which are not seen today.
I say this with the utmost respect to the genius of Tagore, that I did not quite enjoy these collection of poems.
I am sure that the original work, in Bengali, must be delightful.
It has a few illustrations, the likes of which are not seen today.
I say this with the utmost respect to the genius of Tagore, that I did not quite enjoy these collection of poems.
I am sure that the original work, in Bengali, must be delightful.
April 21, 2016
An immensely beautiful collection of poems where a mother talks to her infant, and then the child grows and tells her all his stories & little observations. Towards the end, the mother talks to her adolescent child, giving away little pearls of wisdom.
It's a very tender narrative of emotions and a deep unseen love.
It's a very tender narrative of emotions and a deep unseen love.
May 3, 2015
Most of the poems have wondrous imagery and lovely lines. The illustrations are quite nice. I think it would serve as a good book to read to a very small child because it would likely be enjoyable to the parent as well, as the theme is childhood and child-rearing. Overall, a very pretty book.
February 13, 2019
Short 151 pages quick read coming of age story. Started out optimistic about inventing at beginning but this faded into a capture of several important personal perspectives on historical trends. Enjoyed the logging and wood carving efforts.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 15, 2008
One can feel and enjoy the utter innocence of the child hood...
December 26, 2010
It is quite simply beautiful.
http://ashramblings.blogspot.com/2011...
http://ashramblings.blogspot.com/2010...
http://ashramblings.blogspot.com/2011...
http://ashramblings.blogspot.com/2010...
July 5, 2012
Wonderful book, especially to listen to when read orally by Depak Chopra.
July 10, 2012
Beautiful collection of poems depicting innocence of childhood..........
December 8, 2012
When i read the poems in this Crescent Moon,I again go to my early childwood days...
GURUDEV always great...
GURUDEV always great...
January 12, 2013
A must for all the mothers.
March 26, 2013
"I too am searching for the "Old Man". And will keep searching till we meet and greet other joyously!"
March 30, 2013
Kindle Ebook
May 21, 2014
Beautiful poems - parental observation of their child's world imagined through the child's eyes.
March 8, 2018
A beautiful collection of children's poems
Displaying 1 - 30 of 57 reviews