Quote

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.

Rabindranath Tagore

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Rabindranath Tagore
Age: 80 †
Born: 1861
Born: May 6
Died: 1941
Died: August 7
Artist
Author
Composer
Essayist
Film Director
Lyricist
Painter
Philosopher
Playwright
Poet
Singer
Songwriter
Writer
Calcutta
Rabīndranātha Thākur
Kabiguru
Tagore
Bishwakabi
R. Tagore
Rabindranat Tagor
Bhanu Singha Thakur
Gurudev
Biswakabi
Nyi Wang Gönpo
Tagore
rabindranath
Summer
Stray
Window
Sigh
Songs
Autumn
Song
Yellow
Fall
Birds
Away
Leaves
Come
Sing
Bird
Flutter

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The water vessel, taken as a vessel only, raises the question, Why does it exist at all? Through its fitness of construction, it offers the apology for its existence. But where it is a work of beauty it has no question to answer it has nothing to do, but to be.
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The greed for fruit misses the flower.
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Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.
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I never give answers. I lead on from one question to another. That is my leadership.
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The real frienship is like fluorescence, it shines better when everything has darken.
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O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.
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The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom, and yet keep it for himself.
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God seeks comrades and claims love, The devil seeks slaves and claims obedience.
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The potentiality of perfection outweighs actual contradictions... Existence in itself is here to prove that it cannot be an evil.
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The progress of our soul is like a perfect poem. It has an infinite idea which, once realised, makes all movements full of meaning and joy.
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The music of the far-away summer flutters around the Autumn seeking its former nest.
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Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?
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I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.
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Those who have everything but thee, my God, laugh at those who have nothing but thyself.
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It sometimes strikes me how immensely fortunate I am that each day should take its place in my life, either reddened with the rising and setting sun, or refreshingly cool with deep, dark clouds, or blooming like a white flower in the moonlight. What untold wealth!
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For man is by nature an artist.
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When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable.
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The song I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set only there is the agony of wishing in my heart . . .
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Our creation is the modification of relationship.
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We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent We do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
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