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Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.
Rabindranath Tagore
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Rabindranath Tagore
Age: 80 †
Born: 1861
Born: May 6
Died: 1941
Died: August 7
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Calcutta
Rabīndranātha Thākur
Kabiguru
Tagore
Bishwakabi
R. Tagore
Rabindranat Tagor
Bhanu Singha Thakur
Gurudev
Biswakabi
Nyi Wang Gönpo
Tagore
rabindranath
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Present
Priestesses
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Shrines
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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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Languages are jealous sovereigns, and passports are rarely allowed for travellers to cross their strictly guarded borders.
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Life itself is a strange mixture. We have to take it as it is, try to understand it, and then to better it.
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We read the world wrong and say that it deceives us.
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Life's fulfillment finds constant obstacles in its path but those are necessary for the sake of its advance. The stream is saved from the sluggishness of its current by the perpetual opposition of the soil through which it must cut its way. The spirit of fight belongs to the genius of life.
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The infinite being has assumed unto himself the mystery of finitude. And in him who is love the finite and the infinite are made one.
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Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree.
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Those who draw their sustenance from science are blessed. It is for me to only derive an occasional pleasure. This is nothing worthy of conceit, but I am indeed touched by the joys. This book is an ode to such joys, a digest of my collections from various sources.
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God is neither manifest nor hidden He is neither revealed nor unrevealed there are no words to tell that which He is. He is without form, without quality, without decay.
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Life's aspirations come in the guise of children.
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The false can never grow into truth by growing in power.
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Let not the hours pass by in the dark. Kindle the lamp of love with thy life.
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Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it runs.
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There is no next after you are dead and gone from your own world.
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Love adorns itself it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty
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We are like newborn children, Our power is the power to grow.
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By touching you may kill, by keeping away you may possess.
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Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted.
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To be outspoken is easy when you do not wait to speak the complete truth.
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