Rabindranath Tagore, fully Sir Rabindranath Tagore, sobriquet Gurudev, aka Kabi Guru Rabindranath Thakur or Biswa Kabi

Rabindranath
Tagore, fully Sir Rabindranath Tagore, sobriquet Gurudev, aka Kabi Guru Rabindranath Thakur or Biswa Kabi
1861
1941

Bengalese Mystical Poet, Essayist, Song Composer, Painter, Polymath, Founder Shantaniketan University, awarded Nobel Prize in Literature

Author Quotes

Want of love is a degree of callousness; for love is the perfection of consciousness. We do not love because we do not comprehend, or rather we do not comprehend because we do not love. For love is the ultimate meaning of everything around us. It is not a mere sentiment; it is truth; it is the joy that is at the root of all creation.

We [poets] set men free from their desires.

We are to play the game of death to-night, my bride and I. The night is black, the clouds in the sky are capricious, and the waves are raving at sea. We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the door and come out, my bride and I. We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give us a wild push from behind. My bride starts up with fear and delight, she trembles and clings to my breast. Long have I served her tenderly. I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed the doors to shut out the rude light from her eyes. I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered softly in her ears till she half swooned in languor. She was lost in the endless mist of vague sweetness. She answered not to my touch, my songs failed to arouse her. To-night has come to us the call of the storm from the wild. My bride has shivered and stood up, she has clasped my hand and come out. Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is fluttering, her garland rustles over her breast. The push of death has swung her into life. We are face to face and heart to heart, my bride and I.

We at once feel that cruelty to him is cruelty to ourselves, to make him small is stealing from our own humanity...

We believe that mere movement is life, and that the more velocity it has, the more it expresses vitality.

We can look upon a road from two different points of view. One regards it as dividing us from the object of desire; in that case we count every step of our journey over it as something attained by force in the face of obstruction. The other sees it as the road which leads us to our destination; and as such is part of our goal. It is already the beginning of our attainment, and by journeying over it we can only gain that which in itself it offers to us.

Truth comes as conqueror only to those who have lost the art of receiving it as friend

Truth cannot afford to be tolerant where it faces positive evil.

The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth's dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.

Those who own much have much to fear

Only Thee That I want thee, only thee---let my heart repeat without end. All desires that distract me, day and night, are false and empty to the core. As the night keeps hidden in its gloom the petition for light, even thus in the depth of my unconsciousness rings the cry ---`I want thee, only thee'. As the storm still seeks its end in peace when it strikes against peace with all its might, even thus my rebellion strikes against thy love and still its cry is ---`I want thee, only thee'.

Providence expects that we should make this world our own, and not live in it as though it were a rented tenement. We can only make it our own through some service, and that service is to lend it love and beauty from our soul.

That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.

The current of the world has its boundaries, otherwise it could have no existence, but its purpose is not shown in the boundaries which restrain it, but in its movement, which is toward perfection. The wonder is not that there should be obstacles and sufferings in this world, but that there should be law and order, beauty and joy, goodness and love.

The Infinite Being is not complete if He remains absolutely infinite. He must realize Himself through the finite; that is, through creation. The impulse to realize comes from the fullness of joy; but the process must be through pain.

The potentiality of perfection outweighs actual contradictions... Existence in itself is here to prove that it cannot be an evil.

The stars are not afraid to appear like fireflies.

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 completely identify themselves in their minds with their fixed surroundings and with whatever they have gathered, and to have to leave these is death for them. They forget that the true meaning of living is outliving, it is ever growing out of itself.

Thou hast risen late, my crescent moon, but my night bird is still awake to greet thee.

Only there is the agony of wishing in my heart… I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house… But the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house; I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

Reach high, for stars lie hidden in you. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.

That side of our existence whose direction is towards the infinite seeks not wealth, but freedom and joy. There the reign of necessity ceases, and there our function is not to get but to be. To be what? To be one with Brahma. For the region of the infinite is the region of unity. Therefore the Upanishads say: If man apprehends God he becomes true. Here it is becoming, it is not having more. Words do no gather bulk when you know their meaning; they become true by being one with the idea.

The emancipation of our physical nature is in attaining health, of our social being in attaining goodness, and of our self in attaining love.

The man who aims at his own aggrandisement underrates everything else.

The progress of our soul is like a perfect poem. It has an infinite idea which once realized makes all movements full of meaning and joy. But if we detach its movements from that ultimate idea, if we do not see the infinite rest and only see the infinite motion, then existence appears to us a monstrous evil., impetuously rushing towards an unending aimlessness.

Author Picture
First Name
Rabindranath
Last Name
Tagore, fully Sir Rabindranath Tagore, sobriquet Gurudev, aka Kabi Guru Rabindranath Thakur or Biswa Kabi
Birth Date
1861
Death Date
1941
Bio

Bengalese Mystical Poet, Essayist, Song Composer, Painter, Polymath, Founder Shantaniketan University, awarded Nobel Prize in Literature