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Other animals ran only when they had a reason, but the horse would run for no reason whatever, as if to run out of his own skin

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
Would
Skin
Skins
Animals
Horse
Animal
Whatever
Running
Reason
Ran

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Our creation is the modification of relationship.
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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.
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My heart, the bird of the wilderness, has found its sky in your eyes. They are the cradle of the morning, they are the kingdom of the stars. My songs are lost in their depths. Let me but soar in that sky, in its lonely immensity. Let me but cleave its clouds and spread wings in its sunshine.
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The tragedy of human life consists in our vain attempts to stretch the limits of things which can never become unlimited, to reach the infinite by absurdly adding to the rungs of the ladder of the finite.
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Death is turning out the lamp because the dawn has appeared.
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I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.
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Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims
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Poems On Love Love adorns itself it seeks to prove inward joy by outward beauty. Love does not claim possession, but gives freedom. Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it. Love's gift cannot be given, it waits to be accepted.
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Be brave, right through, and leave for the unknown.
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Discipline divorced from wisdom is not true discipline, but merely the meaningless following of custom, which is only a disguise for stupidity.
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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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Poems On Time The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough. Time is a wealth of change, but the clock in its parody makes it mere change and no wealth. Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.
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On each race is laid the duty to keep alight its own lamp of mind as its part in the illumination of the world. To break the lamp of any people into deprive it of its rightful place in the world festival.
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At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
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