Rabindranath Tagore

Clouds come floating into my life from other days no longer to shed rain or usher storm but to give colour to my sunset sky.

Love is the only reality and it is not a mere sentiment. It is the ultimate truth that lies at the heart of creation.

Let the splendor of diamond, pearl and ruby vanish? Only let this one teardrop, this Taj Mahal, glisten spotlessly bright on the cheek of time, forever and ever.

The one who plants trees, knowing that he will never sit in their shade, has at least started to understand the meaning of life.

Mistakes live in the neighbourhood of truth and therefore delude us.

The night kissed the fading day With a whisper: "I am death, your mother, From me you will get new birth."

Death is turning out the lamp because the dawn has appeared.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high Where knowledge is free.

The same stream of life that runs through the world runs through my veins night and day.

Who are you, a hundred years from today, reading my poetry with curiosity?

It dances today, my heart, _x000D_ like a peacock it dances, _x000D_ it dances. _x000D_ It sports a mosaic of passions like a peacock’s tail, _x000D_ It soars to the sky with delight, it quests, _x000D_ Oh wildly, it dances today, my heart, _x000D_ like a peacock it dances.

For many years, at great cost, I traveled through many countries, saw the high mountains, the oceans. The only things I did not see were the sparkling dewdrops in the grass just outside my door.

The Taj Mahal rises above the banks of the river like a solitary tear suspended on the cheek of time.

Our creation is the modification of relationship.

There is a moral law in this world which has its application both to individuals and organized bodies of men. You cannot go on violating these laws in the name of your nation, yet enjoy their advantage as individuals. We may forget truth for our conv

The birth and death of leaves is part of that greater cycle that moves among the stars.

Things in which we do not take joy are either a burden upon our minds to be got rid of at any cost; or they are useful, and therefore in temporary and partial relation to us, becoming burdensome when their utility is lost; or they are like wandering vagabonds, loitering for a moment on the outskirts of our recognition, and then passing on. A thing is only completely our own when it is a thing of joy to us.

The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.

For every child that is born, it brings with it the hope that God is not yet disappointed with man.

The mountain remains unmoved at its seeming defeat by the mist.

We sit inert, like dead specimens of some museum, while lessons are pelted at us from on high, like hailstones on flowers.