POEMS: “Stray birds” by Rabindranath Tagore (verses 141 to 164 out of 326)
When I travelled to here and to there, I was tired of thee, O Road, but now when thou leadest me to everywhere I am wedded to thee in love.
Let me think that there is one among those stars that guides my life through the dark unknown.
Woman, with the grace of your fingers order came out like music out of everything you touched.
One sad voice has its nest among the ruins of the years. It sings to me in the night,—”I loved you.”
The flaming fire warns me off by its own glow. Save me from the dying embers, hidden under ashes.
I have my stars in the sky, But oh for my little lamp unlit in my house.
The dust of the dead words clings to thee.
Wash thy soul with silence.
Gaps are left in life through which comes the sad music of death.
The world has opened its heart of light in the morning.
Come out, my heart, with thy love to meet it.
My thoughts shimmer with these shimmering leaves and my heart sings with the touch of this sunlight; my life is glad to be floating with all things into the blue of space, into the dark of time.
God’s great power is in the gentle breeze, not in the storm.
This is a dream in which things are all loose and they oppress. I shall find them gathered in thee when I awake and shall be free.
“Who is there to take up my duties?” asked the setting sun.
“I shall do what I can, my Master,” said the earthen lamp.
By plucking her petals you do not gather the beauty of the flower.
Silence will carry your voice like the nest that holds the sleeping birds.
The Great walks with the Small without fear.
The Middling keeps aloof.
The night opens the flowers in secret and allows the day to get thanks.
Power takes as ingratitude the writhlings of its victims.
When we rejoice on our fulness, then we can part with our fruits with joy.
The raindrops kissed the earth and whispered,—”We are thy homesick children, mother, come back to thee From the heaven.”
The cobweb pretends to catch dew-drops and catches flies.
Love! when you come with the burning lamp of pain in your hand, I can see your face and know you as bliss.
“The learned say that your lights will one day be no more.” said the fire-fly to the stars.
The stars made no answer.
In the dusk of the evening the bird of some early dawn comes to the nest of my silence.