The night was dark when we went away
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes
They clamour and fight
This song of mine
When I bring you coloured toys
When storm clouds
When the gong sounds ten
Where have I come from
Who stole sleep from baby's eyes
Why are those tears in your eyes, my child
Why do you sit there on the floor
You say that father writes a lot of books





[Illustration: The Home--from a drawing by Nandalall Bose--see
chome.jpg]


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.