More From Rabindranath Tagore

Stray Birds By Rabindranath Tagore
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1 STRAY birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. 2 O TROUPE of little vagrants... More > of the world, leave your footprints in my words. 3 THE world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover. It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal. 4 IT is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom. 5 THE mighty desert is burning for the love of a blade of grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away. 6 IF you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars. 7 HE sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing water. Will you carry the burden of their lameness? 8 HER wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night. 9 ONCE we dreamt that we were strangers. We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.< Less
Gitanjali: Song Offerings By Rabindranath Tagore
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Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life. This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills... More > and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new. At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable. Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill. When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes. All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony--and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea. I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.< Less
My Reminiscences By Rabindranath Tagore
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I know not who paints the pictures on memory's canvas; but whoever he may be, what he is painting are pictures; by which I mean that he is not there with his brush simply to make a faithful copy of... More > all that is happening. He takes in and leaves out according to his taste. He makes many a big thing small and small thing big. He has no compunction in putting into the background that which was to the fore, or bringing to the front that which was behind. In short he is painting pictures, and not writing history. Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within is being painted a set of pictures. The two correspond but are not one. We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us. Portions of it now and then catch our eye, but the greater part remains out of sight in the darkness. Why the ever-busy painter is painting; when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures are destined—who can tell?< Less
Songs of Kabir By Rabindranath Tagore
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KABÎR'S POEMS I I. 13. mo ko kahân dhûnro bande O servant, where dost thou seek Me? Lo! I am beside thee. I am neither in temple nor in mosque: I am neither... More > in Kaaba nor in Kailash: Neither am I in rites and ceremonies, nor in Yoga and renunciation. If thou art a true seeker, thou shalt at once see Me: thou shalt meet Me in a moment of time. Kabîr says, "O Sadhu! God is the breath of all breath." II I. 16. Santan jât na pûcho nirguniyân It is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs; For the priest, the warrior. the tradesman, and all the thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for God. It is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be; The barber has sought God, the washerwoman, and the carpenter-- Even Raidas was a seeker after God. The Rishi Swapacha was a tanner by caste. Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End, where remains no mark of distinction.< Less