About Rabindranath Tagore: Rabindranath Tagore is generally regarded as the outstanding creative artist of the modern Indian subcontinent.
I can tell you that solitude Is not all exaltation, inner space Where the soul breaths and work can be done. Solitude exposes the nerve, Raises up ghosts. The past, never at rest, flows through it.
It is time I came back to my real life After this voyage to an island with no name, Where I lay down at sunrise drunk with light.
it's spring and the goat-footed balloonMan whistles far and wee
So much depends upon A red wheel barrow Glazed with rain water Beside the white chickens.
Out of love, No regrets-- Though the goodness Be wasted forever. Out of love, No regrets-- Though the return Be never.
One need not be a Chamber — to be Haunted — One need not be a House — The Brain has Corridors — surpassing Material Place —
Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light.
The Soul selects her own Society— Then—shuts the Door— To her divine Majority— Present no more— Unmoved—she notes the Chariots—pausing— At her low Gate— Unmoved—an Emperor be kneeling Upon her Mat— I've known her—from an ample...
This is the Hour of Lead – Remembered, if outlived, As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow – First – Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go –
And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
My heart was full of softening showers, I used to swing like this for hours, I did not care for war or death, I was glad to draw my breath.
I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gu...
And round about there is a rabble Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth.
The eclipses of poets are not foretold in the calender.
For the way of the comets is the poet's way.
Politic, cautious, and meticulous; full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
I have two enemies in all the world, Two twins, inseparably fused: The hunger of the hungry and the fullness of the full.
Tell yourself as it gets cold and gray falls from the air that you will go on walking, hearing the same tune no matter where you find yourself— inside the dome of dark or under the cracking white of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow. Tonight as i...
Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs, you look like a world, lying in surrender. My rough peasant's body digs in you and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth. I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me, and nigh swamped me with ...
To the end of this age. Oh, a thousand years Will Hardly leach,” he thought, “this dust of that fire.
