POEMS: “Stray birds” by Rabindranath Tagore (verses 85 to 116 out of 326)
“How far are you from me, O Fruit?”
I am hidden in your heart, O
This longing is for the one who is felt in the dark, but not seen in the day.
“You are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,” said the dewdrop to the lake.
The scabbard is content to be dull when it protects the keenness of the sword.
In darkness the One appear as uniform; in the light the One appears as manifold.
The great earth makes herself hospitable with the help of the grass.
The birth and death of the leaves are the rapid whirls of the eddy whose wider circles move slowly among stars.
Power said to the world, “You are mine.” The world kept it prisoner on her throne.
Love said to the world, “I am thine.”
The world gave it the freedom of her house.
The mist is like the earth’s desire.
It hides the sun for whom she cries.
Be still, my heart, these great trees are prayers.
The noise of the moment scoffs at the music of the Eternal.
I think of other ages that floated upon the stream of life and love and death and are forgotten, and I feel the freedom of passing away.
The sadness of my soul is her bride’s veil.
It waits to be lifted in the night.
Death’s stamp gives value to the coin of life; making it possible to buy with life what is truly precious.
The cloud stood humbly in a corner of the sky.
The morning crowned it with splendour
The dust receives insult and in return offers her flowers.
Do not linger to gather flowers to keep them, but walk on, for flowers will keep themselves blooming all your way.
Roots are the branches down in the earth.
Branches are roots in the air.
The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.
Do not insult your friend by lending him merits from your own pocket.
The touch of the nameless days clings to my heart like mosses round the old tree.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
God is ashamed when the prosperous boasts of His special favour.
I cast my own shadow upon my path, because I have a lamp that has not been lighted.
Man goes into the noisy crowd to drown his own clamour of silence.
That which ends in exhaustion is death, but the perfect ending is in the endless.
The sun has his simple robe of light. The clouds are decked with gorgeousness.
The hills are like shouts of children who raise their arms, trying to catch stars.
The road is lonely in its crowd for it is not loved.
The power that boasts of its mischiefs is laughed at by the yellow leaves that fall, and clouds that pass by.
The earth hums to me to-day in the sun, like a woman at her spinning, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.
Autumn Bird at Branch Wallpaper