When the gong sounds ten in the morning and I walk to school by our <br />lane. <br />Every day I meet the hawker crying, "Bangles, crystal <br />bangles!" <br />There is nothing to hurry him on, there is no road he must <br />take, no place he must go to, no time when he must come home. <br />I wish I were a hawker, spending my day in the road, crying, <br />"Bangles, crystal bangles!" <br />When at four in the afternoon I come back from the school, <br />I can see through the gate of that house the gardener digging <br />the ground. <br />He does what he likes with his spade, he soils his clothes <br />with dust, nobody takes him to task if he gets baked in the sun or <br />gets wet. <br />I wish I were a gardener digging away at the garden with <br />nobody to stop me from digging. <br />Just as it gets dark in the evening and my mother sends me to <br />bed, <br />I can see through my open window the watchman walking up and <br />down. <br />The lane is dark and lonely, and the street-lamp stands like <br />a giant with one red eye in its head. <br />The watchman swings his lantern and walks with his shadow at <br />his side, and never once goes to bed in his life. <br />I wish I were a watchman walking the streets all night, <br />chasing the shadows with my lantern.<br /><br />Sir Rabindranath Tagore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/vocation-2/
