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
Those who own much have much to fear.
The highest education is that which does not merely give us information but makes our life in harmony with all existence.
Love is when the soul starts to sing and the flowers of your life bloom on their own.
Love gives beauty to everything it touches.
If I can't make it through one door, I'll go through another door- or i'll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.
You can't cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.
The Great Morning which is for all, rises in the East.
Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted.
If someone smells a flower and says he does not understand, the reply to him is: there is nothing to understand, it is only a scent. If he persists, saying: that I know, but what does it all mean? Then one has either to change the subject, or make it more abstruse by saying that the scent is the shape which the universal joy takes in the flower.
The flower which is single need not envy the thorns that are numerous.
Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence? I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds. Open your doors and look abroad. From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before. In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across a hundred years.
Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
And joy is everywhere; it is in the earth's green covering of grass; in the blue serenity of the sky.