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
There are men whose idea of life is tactic, who long for its continuation after death only because of their wish for permanence and not perfection; they love to imagine that the things to which they are accustomed will persist for ever. They complete
Taking shelter in the dead is death itself, and only taking all the risk of life to the fullest extent is living.
In the dualism of death and life there is a harmony. We know that the life of a soul, which is finite in its expression and infinite in its principle, must go through the portals of death in its journey to realize the infinite. It is death which is m
The fountain of death makes the still waters of life play.
Love's over brimming mystery joins death and life. It has filled my cup of pain with joy.
When I think of ages past That have floated down the stream Of life and love and death, I feel how free it makes us To pass away.
If it is necessary to die in order to live like men, what harm in dying?
Death is turning out the lamp because the dawn has appeared.
Death's stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.
The night kissed the fading day With a whisper: "I am death, your mother, From me you will get new birth."
Nirvana is not the blowing out of the candle. It is the extinguishing of the flame because day is come.
Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.
The smile that flickers on baby's lips when he sleeps- does anybody know where it was borne? Yes, there is a rumor that a young pale beam of a crescent moon touched the edge of a vanishing autumn cloud, and there the smile was first born . . . .
Things are distinct not in their essence but in their appearance; in other words, in their relation to one to whom they appear. This is art, the truth of which is not in substance or logic, but in expression. Abstract truth may belong to science and