Rabindranath Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore
Rabindranath Tagore FRAS, also written Ravīndranātha Thākura, sobriquet Gurudev, was a Bengali polymath who reshaped Bengali literature and music, as well as Indian art with Contextual Modernism in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Author of Gitanjali and its "profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse", he became the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913. In translation his poetry was viewed as spiritual and mercurial; however, his "elegant prose and magical poetry" remain largely unknown...
NationalityIndian
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth7 May 1861
CityKolkata, India
CountryIndia
Life's errors cry for the merciful beauty that can modulate their isolation into a harmony with the whole.
Life finds its wealth by the claims of the world, and its worth by the claims of love.
Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart
Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
when you came you cried and everybody smiled with joy; when you go smile and let the world cry for you.
Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.
The mountain remains unmoved at seeming defeat by the mist.
O master poet, I have sat down at thy feet. Only let me make my life simple and straight, like a flute of reed for thee to fill with music.
And it shall be my endeavour to reveal thee in my actions, knowing it is thy power gives me strength to act.
Life is perpetually creative because it contains in itself that surplus which ever overflows the boundaries of the immediate time and space, restlessly pursuing its adventure of expression in the varied forms of self-realization.
What is Art? It is the response of man's creative soul to the call of the Real.
I have on my table a violin string. It is free to move in any direction I like. If I twist one end, it responds; it is free. But it is not free to sing. So I take it and fix it into my violin. I bind it and when it is bound, it is free for the first time to sing.
Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.
Perhaps the new dawn will come from this horizon, from the East where the sun rises; and then, unvanquished Man will retrace his path of conquest, despite all barriers, to win back his lost heritage.