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
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thout keepst me free. Lest I forgot them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love.
Let my thoughts come to you, when I am gone, like the afterglow of sunset at the margin of starry silence.
He alone may chastise who loves.
To be constantly changing one's plans isn't decision at all-it's indecision.
Mistakes live in the neighborhood of truth and therefore delude us.
The spirit of rejection finds its support in the consciousness of separateness; the spirit of acceptance finds its base in the consciousness of unity.
The significance which is in unity is an eternal wonder.
The force of arms only reveals man s weakness.
Work, especially good work, becomes easy only when desire has learned to discipline itself.
False hope is clung to with all one's might and main, till a day comes when it has sucked the heart dry and it forcibly breaks through its bonds and departs. After that comes the misery of awakening, and then once again the longing to get back into the maze of the same mistakes.
Our responsibility is no longer to acquire, but to BE.
Our creation is the modification of relationship.
Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.
It is no easy task to lead men. But it is easy enough to drive them.