POEMS: “Stray birds” by Rabindranath Tagore (verses 117 to 140 out of 326)
The grass-blade is worthy of the great world where it grows.
Dream is a wife who must talk.
Sleep is a husband who silently suffers.
The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, “I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth.”
I fell thy beauty, dark night, like that of the loved woman when she has put out the lamp.
I carry in my world that flourishes the worlds that have failed.
Dear friend, I feel the silence of your great thoughts of many a deepening eventide on this beach when I listen to these waves.
The bird thinks it is an act of kindness to give the fish a lift in the air.
“In the moon thou sendest thy love letters to me,” said the night to the sun. “I leave my answers in tears upon the grass.”
The Great is a born child ; when he dies he gives his great childhood to the world.
Not hammer strokes, but dance of the water sings the pebbles into perfection.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave.
The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
To be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth.
Asks the Possible to the Impossible, “Where is your dwelling place?”
“In the dreams of the impotent,” comes the answer.
If you shut your door to all errors truth will be shut out.
I hear some rustle of things behind my sadness of heart,—I cannot see them
Leisure in its activity is work.
The stillness of the sea stirs in waves.
The leaf becomes flower when it doves.
The flower becomes fruit when it worships.
The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.
This rainy evening the wind is restless.
I look at the swaying branches and ponder over the greatness of all things
Storm of midnight, like a giant child awakened in the untimely dark, has begun to play and shout.
Thou raisest thy waves vainly to follow thy lover, O sea, thou lonely bride of the storm.
“I am ashamed of my emptiness,” said the Word to the Work.
“I know how poor I am when I see you,” said the Work to the Word.
Time is the wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth.
Truth in her dress finds facts too tight.
In fiction she moves with ease.