Maya
That I should make much of myself and turn it on all sides,
thus casting colored shadows on thy radiance
---such is thy Maya.
Thou settest a barrier in thine own being
and then callest thy severed self in myriad notes.
This thy self-separation has taken body in me.
The poignant song is echoed through all the sky in many-coloued tears
and smiles, alarms and hopes; waves rise up and sink again,
dreams break and form.
In me is thy own defeat of self.
This screen that thou hast raised is painted with innumerable figures
with the brush of the night and the day.
Behind it thy seat is woven in wondrous mysteries of curves,
casting away all barren lines of straightness.
The great pageant of thee and me has overspread the sky.
With the tune of thee and me all the air is vibrant,
and all ages pass with the hiding and seeking of thee and me.
Old London Bridge - Only for Poets
Connecting the Poets who digging heart of me Still death - Sabarnasri
HEARTY WELCOME & HAVE A NICE STAY
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Tagore's - There Is a Looker-On
Lover's Gifts XXXIX: There Is a Looker-On
There is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes. I seems he has seen
things in ages and worlds beyond memory's shore, and those
forgotten sights glisten on the grass and shiver on the leaves. He
has seen under new veils the face of the one beloved, in twilight
hours of many a nameless star. Therefore his sky seems to ache with
the pain of countless meetings and partings, and a longing pervades
this spring breeze, -the longing that is full of the whisper of
ages without beginning
There is a looker-on who sits behind my eyes. I seems he has seen
things in ages and worlds beyond memory's shore, and those
forgotten sights glisten on the grass and shiver on the leaves. He
has seen under new veils the face of the one beloved, in twilight
hours of many a nameless star. Therefore his sky seems to ache with
the pain of countless meetings and partings, and a longing pervades
this spring breeze, -the longing that is full of the whisper of
ages without beginning
Tagore's - I Dreamt
Lover's Gifts XXVIII: I Dreamt
I dreamt that she sat by my head, tenderly ruffling my hair with
her fingers, playing the melody of her touch. I looked at her face
and struggled with my tears, till the agony of unspoken words burst
my sleep like a bubble.
I sat up and saw the glow of the Milky Way above my window,
like a world of silence on fire, and I wondered if at this moment
she had a dream that rhymed with mine.
I dreamt that she sat by my head, tenderly ruffling my hair with
her fingers, playing the melody of her touch. I looked at her face
and struggled with my tears, till the agony of unspoken words burst
my sleep like a bubble.
I sat up and saw the glow of the Milky Way above my window,
like a world of silence on fire, and I wondered if at this moment
she had a dream that rhymed with mine.
Tagore's - I Shall Gladly Suffer
Lover's Gifts XXII: I Shall Gladly Suffer
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
I shall gladly suffer the pride of culture to die out in my house,
if only in some happy future I am born a herd-boy in the Brinda
forest.
The herd-boy who grazes his cattle sitting under the banyan
tree, and idly weaves gunja flowers into garlands, who loves to
splash and plunge in the Jamuna's cool deep stream.
He calls his companions to wake up when morning dawns, and all
the houses in the lane hum with the sound of the churn, clouds of
dust are raised by the cattle, the maidens come out in the
courtyard to milk the king.
As the shadows deepen under the tomal trees, and the dusk
gathers on the river-banks; when the milkmaids, while crossing the
turbulent water, tremble with fear; and loud peacocks, with tails
outspread, dance in the forest, he watchers the summer clouds.
When the April night is sweet as a fresh-blown flower, he
disappears in the forest with a peacock's plume in his hair; the
swing ropes are twined with flowers on the branches; the south wind
throbs with music, and the merry shepherd boys crowd on the banks
of the blue river.
No, I will never be the leader, brothers, of this new age of
new Bengal; I shall not trouble to light the lamp of culture for
the benighted. If only I could be born, under the shady asoka
groves, in some village of Brinda, where milk is churned by the
maidens!
Tagore's - Your Days
Lover's Gifts XVIII: Your Days
Your days will be full of cares, if you must give me your heart.
My house by the cross-roads has its doors open and my mind is
your heart. If I pledge my word to you in tunes now, and am too
much in earnest to keep it when music is silent, you must forgive
me; for the law laid down in May is best broken in December.
Do not always keep remembering it, if you must give me your
heart. When your eyes sing with love, and your voice ripples with
laughter, my answers to your questions will be wild, and not
miserly accurate in facts, -they are to be believed for ever and
then forgotten for good.
Your days will be full of cares, if you must give me your heart.
My house by the cross-roads has its doors open and my mind is
absent, -for I sing.
I shall never be made to answer for it, if you must give meyour heart. If I pledge my word to you in tunes now, and am too
much in earnest to keep it when music is silent, you must forgive
me; for the law laid down in May is best broken in December.
Do not always keep remembering it, if you must give me your
heart. When your eyes sing with love, and your voice ripples with
laughter, my answers to your questions will be wild, and not
miserly accurate in facts, -they are to be believed for ever and
then forgotten for good.
Tagore's - She Dwelt Here by the Pool
Lover's Gifts XVI: She Dwelt Here by the Pool
She dwelt here by the pool with its landing-stairs in ruins. Many
an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of
bamboo leaves, and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth
had come to her over the young shoots of rice.
Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves and
in the courtyards where girls sit and talk while stitching their
winter quilts. The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory
of her swimming limbs, and her wet feet had left their marks, day
after day, on the footpath leading to the village.
The women who come to-day with their vessels to the water have
all seen her smile over simple jests, and the old peasant, taking
his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to
greet her.
Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller
takes rest beneath that banyan tree; the ferry-boat crosses to
yonder ford carrying crowds to the market; but they never notice
this spot by the village road, near the pool with its ruined
landing-stairs,-where dwelt she whom I love.
She dwelt here by the pool with its landing-stairs in ruins. Many
an evening she had watched the moon made dizzy by the shaking of
bamboo leaves, and on many a rainy day the smell of the wet earth
had come to her over the young shoots of rice.
Her pet name is known here among those date-palm groves and
in the courtyards where girls sit and talk while stitching their
winter quilts. The water in this pool keeps in its depth the memory
of her swimming limbs, and her wet feet had left their marks, day
after day, on the footpath leading to the village.
The women who come to-day with their vessels to the water have
all seen her smile over simple jests, and the old peasant, taking
his bullocks to their bath, used to stop at her door every day to
greet her.
Many a sailing-boat passes by this village; many a traveller
takes rest beneath that banyan tree; the ferry-boat crosses to
yonder ford carrying crowds to the market; but they never notice
this spot by the village road, near the pool with its ruined
landing-stairs,-where dwelt she whom I love.
Tagore's - The Road Is
Lover's Gifts XLVII: The Road Is
The road is my wedded companion. She speaks to me under my feet all
day, she sings to my dreams all night.
My meeting with her had no beginning, it begins endlessly at
each daybreak, renewing its summer in fresh flowers and songs, and
her every new kiss is the first kiss to me.
The road and I are lovers. I change my dress for her night
after night, leaving the tattered cumber of the old in the wayside
The road is my wedded companion. She speaks to me under my feet all
day, she sings to my dreams all night.
My meeting with her had no beginning, it begins endlessly at
each daybreak, renewing its summer in fresh flowers and songs, and
her every new kiss is the first kiss to me.
The road and I are lovers. I change my dress for her night
after night, leaving the tattered cumber of the old in the wayside
Tagore's - Where Is Heaven
Lover's Gifts XLIV: Where Is Heaven
Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,-the sages tell us it is
beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day
and night; it is not of the earth.
But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and
space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust.
Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your
palpitating heart.
The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe
to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother-
dust.
Where is heaven? you ask me, my child,-the sages tell us it is
beyond the limits of birth and death, unswayed by the rhythm of day
and night; it is not of the earth.
But your poet knows that its eternal hunger is for time and
space, and it strives evermore to be born in the fruitful dust.
Heaven is fulfilled in your sweet body, my child, in your
palpitating heart.
The sea is beating its drums in joy, the flowers are a-tiptoe
to kiss you. For heaven is born in you, in the arms of the mother-
dust.
Tagore's - Dying, You Have Left Behind
Lover's Gifts XLIII: Dying, You Have Left Behind
Dying, you have left behind you the great sadness of the Eternal
in my life. You have painted my thought's horizon with the sunset
colours of your departure, leaving a track of tears across the
earth to love's heaven. Clasped in your dear arms, life and death
united in me in a marriage bond.
I think I can see you watching there in the balcony with your
lamp lighted, where the end and the beginning of all things meet.
My world went hence through the doors that you opened-you holding
the cup of death to my lips, filling it with life from your own.
Dying, you have left behind you the great sadness of the Eternal
in my life. You have painted my thought's horizon with the sunset
colours of your departure, leaving a track of tears across the
earth to love's heaven. Clasped in your dear arms, life and death
united in me in a marriage bond.
I think I can see you watching there in the balcony with your
lamp lighted, where the end and the beginning of all things meet.
My world went hence through the doors that you opened-you holding
the cup of death to my lips, filling it with life from your own.
Tagore's - Are You a Mere Picture
Lover's Gifts XLII: Are You a Mere Picture
Are you a mere picture, and not as true as those stars, true as
this dust? They throb with the pulse of things, but you are
immensely aloof in your stillness, painted form.
The day was when you walked with me, your breath warm, your
limbs singing of life. My world found its speech in your voice, and
touched my heart with your face. You suddenly stopped in your walk,
in the shadow-side of the Forever, and I went on alone.
Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it
runs; it beckons me on, I follow the unseen; but you stand there,
where you stopped behind that dust and those stars; and you are a
mere picture.
No, it cannot be. Had the life-flood utterly stopped in you,
it would stop the river in its flow, and the foot-fall of dawn in
her cadence of colours. Had the glimmering dusk of your hair
vanished in the hopeless dark, the woodland shade of summer would
die with its dreams.
Can it be true that I forgot you? We haste on without heed,
forgetting the flowers on the roadside hedge. Yet they breathe
unaware into our forgetfulness, filling it with music. You have
moved from my world, to take seat at the root of my life, and
therefore is this forgetting-remembrance lost in its own depth.
You are no longer before my songs, but one with them. You came
to me with the first ray of dawn. I lost you with the last gold of
evening. Ever since I am always finding you through the dark. No,
you are no mere picture.
Are you a mere picture, and not as true as those stars, true as
this dust? They throb with the pulse of things, but you are
immensely aloof in your stillness, painted form.
The day was when you walked with me, your breath warm, your
limbs singing of life. My world found its speech in your voice, and
touched my heart with your face. You suddenly stopped in your walk,
in the shadow-side of the Forever, and I went on alone.
Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it
runs; it beckons me on, I follow the unseen; but you stand there,
where you stopped behind that dust and those stars; and you are a
mere picture.
No, it cannot be. Had the life-flood utterly stopped in you,
it would stop the river in its flow, and the foot-fall of dawn in
her cadence of colours. Had the glimmering dusk of your hair
vanished in the hopeless dark, the woodland shade of summer would
die with its dreams.
Can it be true that I forgot you? We haste on without heed,
forgetting the flowers on the roadside hedge. Yet they breathe
unaware into our forgetfulness, filling it with music. You have
moved from my world, to take seat at the root of my life, and
therefore is this forgetting-remembrance lost in its own depth.
You are no longer before my songs, but one with them. You came
to me with the first ray of dawn. I lost you with the last gold of
evening. Ever since I am always finding you through the dark. No,
you are no mere picture.
Tagore's - A Message Came
Lover's Gifts XL: A Message Came
A message came from my youth of vanished days, saying, " I wait for
you among the quivering of unborn May, where smiles ripen for tears
and hours ache with songs unsung."
It says, "Come to me across the worn-out track of age, through
the gates of death. For dreams fade, hopes fail, the fathered
fruits of the year decay, but I am the eternal truth, and you shall
meet me again and again in your voyage of life from shore to
shore."
A message came from my youth of vanished days, saying, " I wait for
you among the quivering of unborn May, where smiles ripen for tears
and hours ache with songs unsung."
It says, "Come to me across the worn-out track of age, through
the gates of death. For dreams fade, hopes fail, the fathered
fruits of the year decay, but I am the eternal truth, and you shall
meet me again and again in your voyage of life from shore to
shore."
Tagore's - It Is Written in the Book
Lover's Gifts XIX: It Is Written in the Book
It is written in the book that Man, when fifty, must leave the
noisy world, to go to the forest seclusion. But the poet proclaims
that the forest hermitage is only for the young. For it is the
birthplace of flowers and the haunt of birds and bees; and hidden
hooks are waiting there for the thrill of lovers' whispers. There
the moon-light, that is all one kiss for the malati flowers, has
its deep message, but those who understand it are far below fifty.
And alas, youth is inexperienced and wilful, therefore it is
but meet that the old should take charge of the household, and the
young take to the seclusion of forest shades and the severe
discipline of courting.
It is written in the book that Man, when fifty, must leave the
noisy world, to go to the forest seclusion. But the poet proclaims
that the forest hermitage is only for the young. For it is the
birthplace of flowers and the haunt of birds and bees; and hidden
hooks are waiting there for the thrill of lovers' whispers. There
the moon-light, that is all one kiss for the malati flowers, has
its deep message, but those who understand it are far below fifty.
And alas, youth is inexperienced and wilful, therefore it is
but meet that the old should take charge of the household, and the
young take to the seclusion of forest shades and the severe
discipline of courting.
Tagore's - Last Night in the Garden
Lover's Gifts XIII: Last Night in the Garden
Last night in the garden I offered you my youth's foaming wine. You
lifted the cup to your lips, you shut your eyes and smiled while
I raised your veil, unbound your tresses, drawing down upon my
breast your face sweet with its silence, last night when the moon's
dream overflowed the world of slumber.
To-day in the dew-cooled calm of the dawn you are walking to
God's temple, bathed and robed in white, with a basketful of
flowers in your hand. I stand aside in the shade under the tree,
with my head bent, in the calm of the dawn by the lonely road to
the temple.
Last night in the garden I offered you my youth's foaming wine. You
lifted the cup to your lips, you shut your eyes and smiled while
I raised your veil, unbound your tresses, drawing down upon my
breast your face sweet with its silence, last night when the moon's
dream overflowed the world of slumber.
To-day in the dew-cooled calm of the dawn you are walking to
God's temple, bathed and robed in white, with a basketful of
flowers in your hand. I stand aside in the shade under the tree,
with my head bent, in the calm of the dawn by the lonely road to
the temple.
Tagore's - There Is Room for You
Lover's Gifts VIII: There Is Room for You
There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice.
My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you
away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling
smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the
rain cloud.
The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You
will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's
end none will keep you back.
Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I
will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat
I shall sit and wonder in the evening, -Where do you go, and to
what home, to garner your sheaves?
There is room for you. You are alone with your few sheaves of rice.
My boat is crowded, it is heavily laden, but how can I turn you
away? Your young body is slim and swaying; there is a twinkling
smile in the edge of your eyes, and your robe is coloured like the
rain cloud.
The travellers will land for different roads and homes. You
will sit for a while on the prow of my boat, and at the journey's
end none will keep you back.
Where do you go, and to what home, to garner your sheaves? I
will not question you, but when I fold my sails and moor my boat
I shall sit and wonder in the evening, -Where do you go, and to
what home, to garner your sheaves?
Tagore's - I Would Ask For Still More
Lover's Gifts V: I Would Ask For Still More
I would ask for still more, if I had the sky with all its stars,
and the world with its endless riches; but I would be content with
the smallest corner of this earth if only she were mine.
I would ask for still more, if I had the sky with all its stars,
and the world with its endless riches; but I would be content with
the smallest corner of this earth if only she were mine.
Tagore's - Take Back Your Coins
Lover's Gifts LXX: Take Back Your Coins
Take back your coins, King's Councilor. I am of those women you
sent to the forest shrine to decoy the young ascetic who had never
seen a women. I failed in your bidding.
Dimly day was breaking when the hermit boy came to bathe in
the stream, his tawny locks crowded on his shoulders, like a
cluster of morning clouds, and his limbs shining like a streak of
sunbeam. We laughed and sang as we rowed in our boat; we jumped
into the river in a mad frolic, and danced around him, when the sun
rose staring at us from the water's edge in a flush of divine
anger.
Like a child-god, the boy opened his eyes and watched our
movements, the wonder deepening till his eyes shone like morning
stars. He lifted his clasped hands and chanted a hymn of praise in
his bird-like young voice, thrilling every leaf of the forest.
Never such words were sung to a mortal woman before; they were like
the silent hymn to the dawn which rises from the hushed hills. THe
women hid their mouths with their hands, their bodies swaying with
laughter, and a spasm of doubt ran across his face. Quickly came
I to his side, sorely pained, and, bowing to his feet, I said,
"Lord, accept my service."
I led him to the grassy bank, wiped his body with the end of
my silken mantle, and, kneeling on the ground, I dried his feet
with my trailing hair. When I raised my face and looked into his
eyes, I thought I felt the world's first kiss to the first woman,
-Blessed am I, blessed is God, who made me a woman. I heard him say
to me, "What God unknown are you? YOur touch is the touch of the
Immortal, your eyes have the mystery of the midnight."
Ah, no, not that smile, King's Councillor, -the dust of
worldly wisdom has covered your sight, old man. But this boy's
innocence pierced the mist and saw the shining truth, the woman
divine....
The women clapped their hands, and laughed their obscene
laugh, and with veils dragged on the dust and hair hanging loose
they began to pelt him with flowers.
Alas, my spotless sun, could not my shame weave fiery mist to
cover you in its folds? I fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive me.
" I fled like a stricken deer through shade and sun, and cried as
I fled, " Forgive me. " The women's foul laughter pressed me like
a cracking fire, but the words ever rang in my ears, " What God
unknown are you?"
Take back your coins, King's Councilor. I am of those women you
sent to the forest shrine to decoy the young ascetic who had never
seen a women. I failed in your bidding.
Dimly day was breaking when the hermit boy came to bathe in
the stream, his tawny locks crowded on his shoulders, like a
cluster of morning clouds, and his limbs shining like a streak of
sunbeam. We laughed and sang as we rowed in our boat; we jumped
into the river in a mad frolic, and danced around him, when the sun
rose staring at us from the water's edge in a flush of divine
anger.
Like a child-god, the boy opened his eyes and watched our
movements, the wonder deepening till his eyes shone like morning
stars. He lifted his clasped hands and chanted a hymn of praise in
his bird-like young voice, thrilling every leaf of the forest.
Never such words were sung to a mortal woman before; they were like
the silent hymn to the dawn which rises from the hushed hills. THe
women hid their mouths with their hands, their bodies swaying with
laughter, and a spasm of doubt ran across his face. Quickly came
I to his side, sorely pained, and, bowing to his feet, I said,
"Lord, accept my service."
I led him to the grassy bank, wiped his body with the end of
my silken mantle, and, kneeling on the ground, I dried his feet
with my trailing hair. When I raised my face and looked into his
eyes, I thought I felt the world's first kiss to the first woman,
-Blessed am I, blessed is God, who made me a woman. I heard him say
to me, "What God unknown are you? YOur touch is the touch of the
Immortal, your eyes have the mystery of the midnight."
Ah, no, not that smile, King's Councillor, -the dust of
worldly wisdom has covered your sight, old man. But this boy's
innocence pierced the mist and saw the shining truth, the woman
divine....
The women clapped their hands, and laughed their obscene
laugh, and with veils dragged on the dust and hair hanging loose
they began to pelt him with flowers.
Alas, my spotless sun, could not my shame weave fiery mist to
cover you in its folds? I fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive me.
" I fled like a stricken deer through shade and sun, and cried as
I fled, " Forgive me. " The women's foul laughter pressed me like
a cracking fire, but the words ever rang in my ears, " What God
unknown are you?"
Tagore's - Things Throng and Laugh
Lover's Gifts LVIII: Things Throng and Laugh
Things throng and laugh loud in the sky; the sands and dust dance
and whirl like children. Man's mind is aroused by their shouts; his
thoughts long to be the playmates of things.
Our dreams, drifting in the stream of the vague, stretch their
arms to clutch the earth, -their efforts stiffen into bricks and
stones, and thus the city of man is built.
Voices come swarming from the past,-seeking answers from the
living moments. Beats of their wings fill the air with tremulous
shadows, and sleepless thoughts in our minds leave their nests to
take flight across the desert of dimness, in the passionate thirst
for forms. They are lampless pilgrims, seeking the shore of light,
to find themselves in things. They will be lured into poets's
rhymes, they will be housed in the towers of the town not yet
planned, they have their call to arms from the battle fields of the
future, they are bidden to join hands in the strife of peace yet
to come.
Things throng and laugh loud in the sky; the sands and dust dance
and whirl like children. Man's mind is aroused by their shouts; his
thoughts long to be the playmates of things.
Our dreams, drifting in the stream of the vague, stretch their
arms to clutch the earth, -their efforts stiffen into bricks and
stones, and thus the city of man is built.
Voices come swarming from the past,-seeking answers from the
living moments. Beats of their wings fill the air with tremulous
shadows, and sleepless thoughts in our minds leave their nests to
take flight across the desert of dimness, in the passionate thirst
for forms. They are lampless pilgrims, seeking the shore of light,
to find themselves in things. They will be lured into poets's
rhymes, they will be housed in the towers of the town not yet
planned, they have their call to arms from the battle fields of the
future, they are bidden to join hands in the strife of peace yet
to come.
Tagore's - The Evening Was Lonely
Lover's Gifts LVI: The Evening Was Lonely
The evening was lonely for me, and I was reading a book till my
heart became dry, and it seemed to me that beauty was a thing
fashioned by the traders in words. Tired I shut the book and
snuffed the candle. In a moment the room was flooded with
moonlight.
Spirit of Beauty, how could you, whose radiance overbrims the
sky, stand hidden behind a candle's tiny flame? How could a few
vain words from a book rise like a mist, and veil her whose voice
has hushed the heart of earth into ineffable calm?
The evening was lonely for me, and I was reading a book till my
heart became dry, and it seemed to me that beauty was a thing
fashioned by the traders in words. Tired I shut the book and
snuffed the candle. In a moment the room was flooded with
moonlight.
Spirit of Beauty, how could you, whose radiance overbrims the
sky, stand hidden behind a candle's tiny flame? How could a few
vain words from a book rise like a mist, and veil her whose voice
has hushed the heart of earth into ineffable calm?
Tagore's - In the Beginning of Time
Lover's Gifts LIV: In the Beginning of Time
In the beginning of time, there rose from the churning of God's
dream two women. One is the dancer at the court of paradise, the
desired of men, she who laughs and plucks the minds of the wise
from their cold meditations and of fools from their emptiness; and
scatters them like seeds with careless hands in the extravagant
winds of March, in the flowering frenzy of May.
The other is the crowned queen of heaven, the mother, throned
on the fullness of golden autumn; she who in the harvest-time
brings straying hearts to the smile sweet as tears, the beauty deep
as the sea of silence, -brings them to the temple of the Unknown,
at the holy confluence of Life and Death.
In the beginning of time, there rose from the churning of God's
dream two women. One is the dancer at the court of paradise, the
desired of men, she who laughs and plucks the minds of the wise
from their cold meditations and of fools from their emptiness; and
scatters them like seeds with careless hands in the extravagant
winds of March, in the flowering frenzy of May.
The other is the crowned queen of heaven, the mother, throned
on the fullness of golden autumn; she who in the harvest-time
brings straying hearts to the smile sweet as tears, the beauty deep
as the sea of silence, -brings them to the temple of the Unknown,
at the holy confluence of Life and Death.
Tagore's - Tired of Waiting
Lover's Gifts LII: Tired of Waiting
Tired of waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before
the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your
wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive
jasmines, troops of riotous roses.
You were the first to march to the breach of death, your
clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and
pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in
heaps.
The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the flood-tide
of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure
of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible
joy of faith.
You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of
death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the
rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim
you.
Tired of waiting, you burst your bonds, impatient flowers, before
the winter had gone. Glimpses of the unseen comer reached your
wayside watch, and you rushed out running and panting, impulsive
jasmines, troops of riotous roses.
You were the first to march to the breach of death, your
clamour of colour and perfume troubled the air. You laughed and
pressed and pushed each other, bared your breast and dropped in
heaps.
The Summer will come in its time, sailing in the flood-tide
of the south wind. But you never counted slow moments to be sure
of him. You recklessly spent your all in the road, in the terrible
joy of faith.
You heard his footsteps from afar, and flung your mantle of
death for him to tread upon. Your bonds break even before the
rescuer is seen, you make him your own ere he can come and claim
you.
Tagore's - She Is Near to My Heart
Lover's Gifts IV: She Is Near to My Heart
She is near to my heart as the meadow-flower to the earth; she is
sweet to me as sleep is to tired limbs. My love for her is my life
flowing in its fullness, like a river in autumn flood, running with
serene abandonment. My songs are one with my love, like the murmur
of a stream, that sings with all its waves and current.
She is near to my heart as the meadow-flower to the earth; she is
sweet to me as sleep is to tired limbs. My love for her is my life
flowing in its fullness, like a river in autumn flood, running with
serene abandonment. My songs are one with my love, like the murmur
of a stream, that sings with all its waves and current.
Tagore's - Come to My Garden Walk
Lover's Gifts II: Come to My Garden Walk
Come to my garden walk, my love. Pass by the fervid flowers that
press themselves on your sight. Pass them by, stopping at some
chance joy, which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet
elude.
For lover's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits
across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.
Overtake it or miss it for ever. But a gift that can be
grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with flame that will
flicker.
Come to my garden walk, my love. Pass by the fervid flowers that
press themselves on your sight. Pass them by, stopping at some
chance joy, which like a sudden wonder of sunset illumines, yet
elude.
For lover's gift is shy, it never tells its name, it flits
across the shade, spreading a shiver of joy along the dust.
Overtake it or miss it for ever. But a gift that can be
grasped is merely a frail flower, or a lamp with flame that will
flicker.
Tagore's - Lotus
Lotus
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
On the day when the lotus bloomed, alas, my mind was straying,
and I knew it not. My basket was empty and the flower remained unheeded.
Only now and again a sadness fell upon me, and I started up from my
dream and felt a sweet trace of a strange fragrance in the south wind.
That vague sweetness made my heart ache with longing and it seemed to
me that is was the eager breath of the summer seeking for its completion.
I knew not then that it was so near, that it was mine, and that this
perfect sweetness had blossomed in the depth of my own heart.
Tagore's - Lost Time
Lost Time
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.
But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased.
In the morning I woke up
and found my garden full with wonders of flowers
On many an idle day have I grieved over lost time.
But it is never lost, my lord.
Thou hast taken every moment of my life in thine own hands.
Hidden in the heart of things thou art nourishing seeds into sprouts,
buds into blossoms, and ripening flowers into fruitfulness.
I was tired and sleeping on my idle bed
and imagined all work had ceased.
In the morning I woke up
and found my garden full with wonders of flowers
Tagore's - Lost Star
Lost Star
When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first
splendor, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang
`Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!'
But one cried of a sudden
---`It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light
and one of the stars has been lost.'
The golden string of their harp snapped,
their song stopped, and they cried in dismay
---`Yes, that lost star was the best,
she was the glory of all heavens!'
From that day the search is unceasing for her,
and the cry goes on from one to the other
that in her the world has lost its one joy!
Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile
and whisper among themselves
---`Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!'
When the creation was new and all the stars shone in their first
splendor, the gods held their assembly in the sky and sang
`Oh, the picture of perfection! the joy unalloyed!'
But one cried of a sudden
---`It seems that somewhere there is a break in the chain of light
and one of the stars has been lost.'
The golden string of their harp snapped,
their song stopped, and they cried in dismay
---`Yes, that lost star was the best,
she was the glory of all heavens!'
From that day the search is unceasing for her,
and the cry goes on from one to the other
that in her the world has lost its one joy!
Only in the deepest silence of night the stars smile
and whisper among themselves
---`Vain is this seeking! unbroken perfection is over all!'
Tagore's - Little Of Me
Little Of Me
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will
whereby I may feel thee on every side,
and come to thee in everything,
and offer to thee my love every moment.
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left
whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life---and that is the fetter of thy love.
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will
whereby I may feel thee on every side,
and come to thee in everything,
and offer to thee my love every moment.
Let only that little be left of me
whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left
whereby I am bound with thy will,
and thy purpose is carried out in my life---and that is the fetter of thy love.
Tagore's - Little Flute
Little Flute
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail
vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales,
and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in
joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine.
Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
Tagore's - Light
Light
Light, my light, the world-filling light,
the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life;
the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love;
the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light.
Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling,
and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,
and gladness without measure.
The heaven's river has drowned its banks
and the flood of joy is abroad.
Light, my light, the world-filling light,
the eye-kissing light,
heart-sweetening light!
Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life;
the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love;
the sky opens, the wind runs wild, laughter passes over the earth.
The butterflies spread their sails on the sea of light.
Lilies and jasmines surge up on the crest of the waves of light.
The light is shattered into gold on every cloud, my darling,
and it scatters gems in profusion.
Mirth spreads from leaf to leaf, my darling,
and gladness without measure.
The heaven's river has drowned its banks
and the flood of joy is abroad.
Tagore's - Let Me Not Forget
Let Me Not Forget
If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life
then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
As my days pass in the crowded market of this world
and my hands grow full with the daily profits,
let me ever feel that I have gained nothing
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting,
when I spread my bed low in the dust,
let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me
---let me not forget a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound
and the laughter there is loud,
let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours
If it is not my portion to meet thee in this life
then let me ever feel that I have missed thy sight
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
As my days pass in the crowded market of this world
and my hands grow full with the daily profits,
let me ever feel that I have gained nothing
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When I sit by the roadside, tired and panting,
when I spread my bed low in the dust,
let me ever feel that the long journey is still before me
---let me not forget a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours.
When my rooms have been decked out and the flutes sound
and the laughter there is loud,
let me ever feel that I have not invited thee to my house
---let me not forget for a moment,
let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams
and in my wakeful hours
Tagore's - Leave This
Leave This
Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!
Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground
and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.
He is with them in sun and in shower,
and his garment is covered with dust.
Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance?
Where is this deliverance to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;
he is bound with us all for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.
Leave this chanting and singing and telling of beads!
Whom dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground
and where the pathmaker is breaking stones.
He is with them in sun and in shower,
and his garment is covered with dust.
Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the dusty soil!
Deliverance?
Where is this deliverance to be found?
Our master himself has joyfully taken upon him the bonds of creation;
he is bound with us all for ever.
Come out of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense!
What harm is there if thy clothes become tattered and stained?
Meet him and stand by him in toil and in sweat of thy brow.
Tagore's - Last Curtain
Last Curtain
I know that the day will come
when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night,
and morning rise as before,
and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got
---let them pass.
Let me but truly possess
the things that I ever spurned
and overlooked.
I know that the day will come
when my sight of this earth shall be lost,
and life will take its leave in silence,
drawing the last curtain over my eyes.
Yet stars will watch at night,
and morning rise as before,
and hours heave like sea waves casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the light of death
thy world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare is its meanest of lives.
Things that I longed for in vain
and things that I got
---let them pass.
Let me but truly possess
the things that I ever spurned
and overlooked.
Tagore's - Lamp Of Love
Lamp Of Love
Hi There! I see you're enjoying the site, and just wanted to extend an invitiation to register for our free site. The members of oldpoetry strive to make this a fun place to learn and share - hope you join us! - Kevin
Hi There! I see you're enjoying the site, and just wanted to extend an invitiation to register for our free site. The members of oldpoetry strive to make this a fun place to learn and share - hope you join us! - Kevin
Tagore's - Journey Home
Journey Home
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my
voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,
and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,
and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!'
The question and the cry `Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!'
The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light, and pursued my
voyage through the wildernesses of worlds leaving my track on many a star and planet.
It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,
and that training is the most intricate which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,
and one has to wander through all the outer worlds to reach the innermost shrine at the end.
My eyes strayed far and wide before I shut them and said `Here art thou!'
The question and the cry `Oh, where?' melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world with the flood of the assurance `I am!'
Tagore's - Innermost One
Innermost One
He it is, the innermost one,
who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes
and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart
in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this maya
in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,
and lets peep out through the folds his feet,
at whose touch I forget myself.
Days come and ages pass,
and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,
in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.
He it is, the innermost one,
who awakens my being with his deep hidden touches.
He it is who puts his enchantment upon these eyes
and joyfully plays on the chords of my heart
in varied cadence of pleasure and pain.
He it is who weaves the web of this maya
in evanescent hues of gold and silver, blue and green,
and lets peep out through the folds his feet,
at whose touch I forget myself.
Days come and ages pass,
and it is ever he who moves my heart in many a name,
in many a guise, in many a rapture of joy and of sorrow.
Tagore's - Give Me Strength
Give Me Strength
This is my prayer to thee, my lord---strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
This is my prayer to thee, my lord---strike,
strike at the root of penury in my heart.
Give me the strength lightly to bear my joys and sorrows.
Give me the strength to make my love fruitful in service.
Give me the strength never to disown the poor or bend my knees before insolent might.
Give me the strength to raise my mind high above daily trifles.
And give me the strength to surrender my strength to thy will with love.
Tagore's Poem - Friend
Friend
Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend?
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight.
Ever and again I open my door and look out on
the darkness, my friend!
I can see nothing before me.
I wonder where lies thy path!
By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading
thy course to come to me, my friend?
Art thou abroad on this stormy night
on thy journey of love, my friend?
The sky groans like one in despair.
I have no sleep tonight.
Ever and again I open my door and look out on
the darkness, my friend!
I can see nothing before me.
I wonder where lies thy path!
By what dim shore of the ink-black river,
by what far edge of the frowning forest,
through what mazy depth of gloom art thou threading
thy course to come to me, my friend?
Tagore's - Free Love
Free Love
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits for my love.
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world.
But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs,
and thou keepest me free.
Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone.
But day passes by after day and thou art not seen.
If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart,
thy love for me still waits for my love.
Tagore's Poem - Fool
Fool
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!
O beggar, to come beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,
and never look behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.
It is unholy---take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.
Accept only what is offered by sacred love.
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!
O beggar, to come beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,
and never look behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.
It is unholy---take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.
Accept only what is offered by sacred love.
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!
O beggar, to come beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,
and never look behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.
It is unholy---take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.
Accept only what is offered by sacred love.
O Fool, try to carry thyself upon thy own shoulders!
O beggar, to come beg at thy own door!
Leave all thy burdens on his hands who can bear all,
and never look behind in regret.
Thy desire at once puts out the light from the lamp it touches with its breath.
It is unholy---take not thy gifts through its unclean hands.
Accept only what is offered by sacred love.
Tagore's - Flower
Flower
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of
pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am
aware, and the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower
in thy service and pluck it while there is time.
Pluck this little flower and take it, delay not! I fear lest it
droop and drop into the dust.
I may not find a place in thy garland, but honour it with a touch of
pain from thy hand and pluck it. I fear lest the day end before I am
aware, and the time of offering go by.
Though its colour be not deep and its smell be faint, use this flower
in thy service and pluck it while there is time.
Tagore's - Farewell
Farewell
I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!
I bow to you all and take my departure.
Here I give back the keys of my door
---and I give up all claims to my house.
I only ask for last kind words from you.
We were neighbors for long,
but I received more than I could give.
Now the day has dawned
and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out.
A summons has come and I am ready for my journey.
I have got my leave. Bid me farewell, my brothers!
I bow to you all and take my departure.
Here I give back the keys of my door
---and I give up all claims to my house.
I only ask for last kind words from you.
We were neighbors for long,
but I received more than I could give.
Now the day has dawned
and the lamp that lit my dark corner is out.
A summons has come and I am ready for my journey.
Tagore's - Fairyland
Fairyland
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
If people came to know where my king's palace is, it would vanish
into the air.
The walls are of white silver and the roof of shining gold.
The queen lives in a palace with seven courtyards, and she
wears a jewel that cost all the wealth of seven kingdoms.
But let me tell you, mother, in a whisper, where my king's
palace is.
It is at the corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
The princess lies sleeping on the far-away shore of the seven
impassable seas.
There is none in the world who can find her but myself.
She has bracelets on her arms and pearl drops in her ears; her
hair sweeps down upon the floor.
She will wake when I touch her with my magic wand and jewels
will fall from her lips when she smiles.
But let me whisper in your ear, mother; she is there in the
corner of our terrace where the pot of the tulsi plant stands.
When it is time for you to go to the river for your bath, step
up to that terrace on the roof.
I sit in the corner where the shadow of the walls meet
together.
Only puss is allowed to come with me, for she know where the
barber in the story lives.
But let me whisper, mother, in your ear where the barber in
the story lives.
It is at the corner of the terrace where the pot of the tulsi
plant stands.
Tagore's - Face To Face
Face To Face
Day after day, O lord of my life,
shall I stand before thee face to face.
With folded hands, O lord of all worlds,
shall I stand before thee face to face.
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence,
with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face.
In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil
and with struggle, among hurrying crowds
shall I stand before thee face to face.
And when my work shall be done in this world,
O King of kings, alone and speechless
shall I stand before thee face to face.
Day after day, O lord of my life,
shall I stand before thee face to face.
With folded hands, O lord of all worlds,
shall I stand before thee face to face.
Under thy great sky in solitude and silence,
with humble heart shall I stand before thee face to face.
In this laborious world of thine, tumultuous with toil
and with struggle, among hurrying crowds
shall I stand before thee face to face.
And when my work shall be done in this world,
O King of kings, alone and speechless
shall I stand before thee face to face.
Tagore's - Dungeon
Dungeon
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.
I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into
the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand
lest a least hole should be left in this name;
and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.
He whom I enclose with my name is weeping in this dungeon.
I am ever busy building this wall all around; and as this wall goes up into
the sky day by day I lose sight of my true being in its dark shadow.
I take pride in this great wall, and I plaster it with dust and sand
lest a least hole should be left in this name;
and for all the care I take I lose sight of my true being.
Tagoe's Poem - Distant Time
Distant Time
I know not from what distant time
thou art ever coming nearer to meet me.
Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard
and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not only why today my life is all astir,
and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work,
and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.
I know not from what distant time
thou art ever coming nearer to meet me.
Thy sun and stars can never keep thee hidden from me for aye.
In many a morning and eve thy footsteps have been heard
and thy messenger has come within my heart and called me in secret.
I know not only why today my life is all astir,
and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart.
It is as if the time were come to wind up my work,
and I feel in the air a faint smell of thy sweet presence.
Tagore's Poem - Defamation
Defamation
Whey are those tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing!
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing-
is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because
it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are
ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you
untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles
through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds.
Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they
call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
Whey are those tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing!
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing-
is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because
it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are
ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you
untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles
through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds.
Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they
call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you?
Tagore's poem - Death
Death
Hi There! I see you're enjoying the site, and just wanted to extend an invitiation to register for our free site. The members of oldpoetry strive to make this a fun place to learn and share - hope you join us! - Kevin
Hi There! I see you're enjoying the site, and just wanted to extend an invitiation to register for our free site. The members of oldpoetry strive to make this a fun place to learn and share - hope you join us! - Kevin
Tagore's - Colored Toys
Colored Toys
When I bring to you colored toys, my child,
I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water,
and why flowers are painted in tints
---when I give colored toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance
I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth
---when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands
I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers
and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice
---when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,
I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body
---when I kiss you to make you smile.
When I bring to you colored toys, my child,
I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water,
and why flowers are painted in tints
---when I give colored toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance
I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth
---when I sing to make you dance.
When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands
I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers
and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice
---when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.
When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,
I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body
---when I kiss you to make you smile.
Tagore's - Clouds and Waves
Clouds and Waves
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon."
I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?"
They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home, "I say, "How can I leave
her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?"
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.
Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
"We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon."
I ask, "But how am I to get up to you ?"
They answer, "Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds."
"My mother is waiting for me at home, "I say, "How can I leave
her and come?"
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
"We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass."
I ask, "But how am I to join you?"
They tell me, "Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves."
I say, "My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?"
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
laughter.
And no one in the world will know where we both are.
Tagore's - Closed Path
Closed Path
I thought that my voyage had come to its end
at the last limit of my power,---that the path before me was closed,
that provisions were exhausted
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no end in me.
And when old words die out on the tongue,
new melodies break forth from the heart;
and where the old tracks are lost,
new country is revealed with its wonders.
I thought that my voyage had come to its end
at the last limit of my power,---that the path before me was closed,
that provisions were exhausted
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that thy will knows no end in me.
And when old words die out on the tongue,
new melodies break forth from the heart;
and where the old tracks are lost,
new country is revealed with its wonders.
Tagore's - Chain Of Pearls
Chain Of Pearls
Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck
with my tears of sorrow.
The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,
but mine will hang upon thy breast.
Wealth and fame come from thee
and it is for thee to give or to withhold them.
But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own,
and when I bring it to thee as my offering
thou rewardest me with thy grace.
Mother, I shall weave a chain of pearls for thy neck
with my tears of sorrow.
The stars have wrought their anklets of light to deck thy feet,
but mine will hang upon thy breast.
Wealth and fame come from thee
and it is for thee to give or to withhold them.
But this my sorrow is absolutely mine own,
and when I bring it to thee as my offering
thou rewardest me with thy grace.
Tagore's Brink Of Eternity
Brink Of Eternity
In desperate hope I go and search for her
in all the corners of my room;
I find her not.
My house is small
and what once has gone from it can never be regained.
But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
and seeking her I have to come to thy door.
I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.
I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.
In desperate hope I go and search for her
in all the corners of my room;
I find her not.
My house is small
and what once has gone from it can never be regained.
But infinite is thy mansion, my lord,
and seeking her I have to come to thy door.
I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky
and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.
I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish
---no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean,
plunge it into the deepest fullness.
Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch
in the allness of the universe.
Tagore's Benediction
Benediction
Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of
heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his
mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after
gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.
He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door,
and grasped you hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in
his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.
Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves
underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and
fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and
bless him.
Bless this little heart, this white soul that has won the kiss of
heaven for our earth.
He loves the light of the sun, he loves the sight of his
mother's face.
He has not learned to despise the dust, and to hanker after
gold.
Clasp him to your heart and bless him.
He has come into this land of an hundred cross-roads.
I know not how he chose you from the crowd, came to your door,
and grasped you hand to ask his way.
He will follow you, laughing the talking, and not a doubt in
his heart.
Keep his trust, lead him straight and bless him.
Lay your hand on his head, and pray that though the waves
underneath grow threatening, yet the breath from above may come and
fill his sails and waft him to the heaven of peace.
Forget him not in your hurry, let him come to your heart and
bless him.
Tagore's Beggarly's Heart
Beggarly Heart
When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.
When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.
When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.
When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.
When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder
When the heart is hard and parched up,
come upon me with a shower of mercy.
When grace is lost from life,
come with a burst of song.
When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides shutting me out from
beyond, come to me, my lord of silence, with thy peace and rest.
When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner,
break open the door, my king, and come with the ceremony of a king.
When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O thou holy one,
thou wakeful, come with thy light and thy thunder
Tagore's Baby's World
Baby's World
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.
I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.
Tagore's Baby's Way
Baby's Way
If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment.
It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.
He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever
bear to lose sight of her.
Baby know all manner of wise words, though few on earth can
understand their meaning.
It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.
The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from
mother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent.
Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar
on to this earth.
It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise.
This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly
helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.
Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny
crescent moon.
It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.
He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little
corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught
and pressed in her dear arms.
Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect
bliss.
It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears.
Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's
yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles
weave the double bond of pity and love.
If baby only wanted to, he could fly up to heaven this moment.
It is not for nothing that he does not leave us.
He loves to rest his head on mother's bosom, and cannot ever
bear to lose sight of her.
Baby know all manner of wise words, though few on earth can
understand their meaning.
It is not for nothing that he never wants to speak.
The one thing he wants is to learn mother's words from
mother's lips. That is why he looks so innocent.
Baby had a heap of gold and pearls, yet he came like a beggar
on to this earth.
It is not for nothing he came in such a disguise.
This dear little naked mendicant pretends to be utterly
helpless, so that he may beg for mother's wealth of love.
Baby was so free from every tie in the land of the tiny
crescent moon.
It was not for nothing he gave up his freedom.
He knows that there is room for endless joy in mother's little
corner of a heart, and it is sweeter far than liberty to be caught
and pressed in her dear arms.
Baby never knew how to cry. He dwelt in the land of perfect
bliss.
It is not for nothing he has chosen to shed tears.
Though with the smile of his dear face he draws mother's
yearning heart to him, yet his little cries over tiny troubles
weave the double bond of pity and love.
Tagore's Authorship
Authorship
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
Tagore's A Moments Indulgence
Rabindranath Tagore
(1861 - 1941 / India)
A Moments Indulgence
I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing
dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
(1861 - 1941 / India)
A Moments Indulgence
I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.
Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.
Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.
Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing
dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.
Shakespeare's Dramatic Quotes
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
Greatest English dramatist & poet
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.
Action is eloquence.
And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind,
As man's ingratitude.
Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment,
not working with the eye without the ear,
and but in purged judgement trusting neither?
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.
God bless thee; and put meekness in thy mind, love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
How poor are they who have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees.
- More quotations on: [Patience]
How use doth breed a habit in a man.
I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'.
I dote on his very absence.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
inhabits our frail blood.
I must be cruel only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
I pray thee cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
as water in a sieve.
I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
I wish you well and so I take my leave,
I Pray you know me when we meet again.
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
A friend i'the court is better than a penny in purse.
A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.
Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
An overflow of good converts to bad.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Beauty is all very well at first sight; but whoever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?
Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
Boldness be my friend.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
By that sin fell the angels.
Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong.
Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
Death is a fearful thing.
Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
Everyone ought to bear patiently the results of his own conduct.
Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
Expectation is the root of all heartache.
Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Farewell, fair cruelty.
Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.
For I can raise no money by vile means.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
Having nothing, nothing can he lose.
He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.
He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good dead in a naughty world.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
I bear a charmed life.
I dote on his very absence.
I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
I was adored once too.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
I will praise any man that will praise me.
If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.
If music be the food of love, play on.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
Let no such man be trusted.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.
Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
Listen to many, speak to a few.
Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
Love is too young to know what conscience is.
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
Maids want nothing but husbands, and when they have them, they want everything.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
Men's vows are women's traitors!
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
Nothing can come of nothing.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
O, had I but followed the arts!
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
Speak low, if you speak love.
Such as we are made of, such we be.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.
The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.
The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
The golden age is before us, not behind us.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
The object of art is to give life a shape.
The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
The valiant never taste of death but once.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
The wheel is come full circle.
There have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
There is no darkness but ignorance.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
There's many a man has more hair than wit.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
There's place and means for every man alive.
They do not love that do not show their love.
They say miracles are past.
Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.
This above all; to thine own self be true.
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.
'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
To do a great right do a little wrong.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
What is past is prologue.
What, man, defy the devil. Consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
What's done can't be undone.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
It is not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.
Lady you bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins,
And there is such confusion in my powers.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; take honour from me and my life is done.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.
See first that the design is wise and just: that ascertained, pursue it resolutely; do not for one repulse forego the purpose that you resolved to effect.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
Strong reasons make strong actions.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a toad, though ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
The sands are number'd that make up my life.
The soul of this man is in his clothes.
The trust I have is in mine innocence,
and therefore am I bold and resolute.
Their understanding
Begins to swell and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores
That now lie foul and muddy.
Thou art all the comfort,
The Gods will diet me with.
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
We know what we are, but not what we may be.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
and doleful dumps the mind opresses,
then music, with her silver sound,
with speedy help doth lend redress.
Greatest English dramatist & poet
A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.
Action is eloquence.
And since you know you cannot see yourself,
so well as by reflection, I, your glass,
will modestly discover to yourself,
that of yourself which you yet know not of.
And thus I clothe my naked villainy
With old odd ends, stol'n forth of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
Assume a virtue, if you have it not.
Be great in act, as you have been in thought.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind,
As man's ingratitude.
Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.
Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment,
not working with the eye without the ear,
and but in purged judgement trusting neither?
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
Glory is like a circle in the water,
Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself,
Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.
God bless thee; and put meekness in thy mind, love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him; if stronger, spare thyself.
His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up,
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
How poor are they who have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees.
- More quotations on: [Patience]
How use doth breed a habit in a man.
I am not bound to please thee with my answers.
I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound'.
I dote on his very absence.
I feel within me a peace above all earthly dignities, a still and quiet conscience.
I hate ingratitude more in a man
than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness,
or any taint of vice whose strong corruption
inhabits our frail blood.
I must be cruel only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
I pray thee cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
as water in a sieve.
I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
I wish you well and so I take my leave,
I Pray you know me when we meet again.
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.
A friend i'the court is better than a penny in purse.
A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
A peace is of the nature of a conquest; for then both parties nobly are subdued, and neither party loser.
Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.
Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
An overflow of good converts to bad.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.
And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.
As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.
Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Beauty is all very well at first sight; but whoever looks at it when it has been in the house three days?
Being born is like being kidnapped. And then sold into slavery.
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
Boldness be my friend.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
By that sin fell the angels.
Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes; fathers that children with their judgment looked; and either may be wrong.
Come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.
Death is a fearful thing.
Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.
Everyone ought to bear patiently the results of his own conduct.
Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
Expectation is the root of all heartache.
Faith, there hath been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Farewell, fair cruelty.
Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.
For I can raise no money by vile means.
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.
Having nothing, nothing can he lose.
He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.
He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
He that is giddy thinks the world turns round.
He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good dead in a naughty world.
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
I bear a charmed life.
I dote on his very absence.
I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.
I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man.
I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
I was adored once too.
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
I will praise any man that will praise me.
If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.
If music be the food of love, play on; give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.
If music be the food of love, play on.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottage princes' palaces.
If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss; and if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
In a false quarrel there is no true valor.
In time we hate that which we often fear.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
It is a wise father that knows his own child.
It is neither good nor bad, but thinking makes it so.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions.
It will have blood, they say; blood will have blood.
Lawless are they that make their wills their law.
Let every eye negotiate for itself and trust no agent.
Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.
Let no such man be trusted.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.
Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
Listen to many, speak to a few.
Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
Love is too young to know what conscience is.
Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
Maids want nothing but husbands, and when they have them, they want everything.
Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.
Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
Men's vows are women's traitors!
Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.
Nothing can come of nothing.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.
O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!
O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.
O, had I but followed the arts!
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!
O! for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention.
O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short.
Poor and content is rich, and rich enough.
Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove.
Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.
Speak low, if you speak love.
Such as we are made of, such we be.
Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.
Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.
Teach not thy lip such scorn, for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.
Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.
The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.
The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.
The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
The golden age is before us, not behind us.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
The object of art is to give life a shape.
The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
The undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.
The valiant never taste of death but once.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
The wheel is come full circle.
There have been many great men that have flattered the people who ne'er loved them.
There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
There is no darkness but ignorance.
There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
There's many a man has more hair than wit.
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
There's place and means for every man alive.
They do not love that do not show their love.
They say miracles are past.
Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.
This above all; to thine own self be true.
Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.
'Tis one thing to be tempted, another thing to fall.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
To do a great right do a little wrong.
To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him.
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.
Virtue itself scapes not calumnious strokes.
We are time's subjects, and time bids be gone.
We cannot conceive of matter being formed of nothing, since things require a seed to start from... Therefore there is not anything which returns to nothing, but all things return dissolved into their elements.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
What is past is prologue.
What, man, defy the devil. Consider, he's an enemy to mankind.
What's done can't be undone.
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.
When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
When words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain.
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?
Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.
Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
It is not enough to help the feeble up, but to support him after.
Lady you bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins,
And there is such confusion in my powers.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; take honour from me and my life is done.
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
Our bodies are our gardens to which our wills are gardeners.
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it cruelly.
Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear.
See first that the design is wise and just: that ascertained, pursue it resolutely; do not for one repulse forego the purpose that you resolved to effect.
So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
Strong reasons make strong actions.
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
Sweet are the uses of adversity, which, like a toad, though ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in its head.
The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
The sands are number'd that make up my life.
The soul of this man is in his clothes.
The trust I have is in mine innocence,
and therefore am I bold and resolute.
Their understanding
Begins to swell and the approaching tide
Will shortly fill the reasonable shores
That now lie foul and muddy.
Thou art all the comfort,
The Gods will diet me with.
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance.
Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
Virtue and genuine graces in themselves speak what no words can utter.
We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
We know what we are, but not what we may be.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
and doleful dumps the mind opresses,
then music, with her silver sound,
with speedy help doth lend redress.
Milton Quotes
JOHN MILTON
English poet, scholar, writer and patriot
(1608 - 1674)
A complete and generous education fits a man to perform justly, skilfully and magnanimously all the offices of peace and war.
- [Education]
A dark
Illimitable ocean, without bound,
Without dimension; where length, breadth, and highth,
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night
And Chaos--ancestors of Nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.
- [Hell]
A death-like sleep,
A gentle wafting to immortal life.
- [Death]
A dismal, universal hiss, the sound of public scorn.
- [Scorn]
A fabric huge
Rose, like an exhalation.
- [Architecture]
A father or a brother may be hated zealously, and loved civilly or naturally.
- [Zeal]
A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
- [Principles]
A universe of death
Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things
Abominable, unutterable, and worse
Than fables yet have feign'd, or fear conceived.
- [Hell]
Abash'd the devil stood,
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely.
- [Goodness]
Advise how war may, best upheld, move by her two main nerves, iron and gold.
- [War]
Airs, vernal airs, breathing the smell of fields and grove, attune the trembling leaves.
- [Spring]
All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.
- [Despair]
All sorts are here that all the earth yields, variety without end.
- [Variety]
All was false and hollow, though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worst appear
The better reason.
- [Proverbs]
Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
- [Fame]
Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny; or no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
- [Anarchy]
And now the thickened sky like a dark ceiling stood; down rushed the rain impetuous.
- [Rain]
And what the people but a herd confus'd,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and, well weigh'd, scarce worth the praise?
They praise, and they admire, they know not what;
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extoll'd,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
Of whom to be disprais'd were no small praise?
- [People]
And with necessity,
The tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deeds.
- [Proverbs]
Angels contented with their face in heaven,
Seek not the praise of men.
- [Angels]
Anger and just rebuke, and judgment given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery,
Death's harbinger.
- [Sin]
Apostate, still thou err'st, nor end wilt find
Offering, from the paths of truth remote.
- [Apostasy]
Apt words have power to suage the tumors of a troubled mind.
- [Consolation]
Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
- [Patience]
At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
- [Christ]
English poet, scholar, writer and patriot
(1608 - 1674)
A complete and generous education fits a man to perform justly, skilfully and magnanimously all the offices of peace and war.
- [Education]
A dark
Illimitable ocean, without bound,
Without dimension; where length, breadth, and highth,
And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night
And Chaos--ancestors of Nature, hold
Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise
Of endless wars, and by confusion stand.
- [Hell]
A death-like sleep,
A gentle wafting to immortal life.
- [Death]
A dismal, universal hiss, the sound of public scorn.
- [Scorn]
A fabric huge
Rose, like an exhalation.
- [Architecture]
A father or a brother may be hated zealously, and loved civilly or naturally.
- [Zeal]
A good principle not rightly understood may prove as hurtful as a bad.
- [Principles]
A universe of death
Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breeds
Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things
Abominable, unutterable, and worse
Than fables yet have feign'd, or fear conceived.
- [Hell]
Abash'd the devil stood,
And felt how awful goodness is, and saw
Virtue in her shape how lovely.
- [Goodness]
Advise how war may, best upheld, move by her two main nerves, iron and gold.
- [War]
Airs, vernal airs, breathing the smell of fields and grove, attune the trembling leaves.
- [Spring]
All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.
- [Despair]
All sorts are here that all the earth yields, variety without end.
- [Variety]
All was false and hollow, though his tongue
Dropt manna, and could make the worst appear
The better reason.
- [Proverbs]
Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.
- [Fame]
Anarchy is the sure consequence of tyranny; or no power that is not limited by laws can ever be protected by them.
- [Anarchy]
And now the thickened sky like a dark ceiling stood; down rushed the rain impetuous.
- [Rain]
And what the people but a herd confus'd,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol
Things vulgar, and, well weigh'd, scarce worth the praise?
They praise, and they admire, they know not what;
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extoll'd,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk,
Of whom to be disprais'd were no small praise?
- [People]
And with necessity,
The tyrant's plea, excused his devilish deeds.
- [Proverbs]
Angels contented with their face in heaven,
Seek not the praise of men.
- [Angels]
Anger and just rebuke, and judgment given,
That brought into this world a world of woe,
Sin and her shadow Death, and Misery,
Death's harbinger.
- [Sin]
Apostate, still thou err'st, nor end wilt find
Offering, from the paths of truth remote.
- [Apostasy]
Apt words have power to suage the tumors of a troubled mind.
- [Consolation]
Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
- [Patience]
At His birth a star, unseen before in heaven, proclaims Him come.
- [Christ]
Keats Quotes
JOHN KEATS
English poet
(1795 - 1821)
A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
- [Thought]
A proverb is no proverb to you until life has illustrated it.
- [Proverbs (General)]
Albeit failure in any cause produces a correspondent misery in the soul, yet it is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterward carefully eschew.
- [Failure]
And share the inward fragrance of each other's heart.
- [Sympathy]
Death is Life's high meed.
- [Death]
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
- [Bees]
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
- [Fancy]
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man;
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span;
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd-cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven; quiet coves
His soul hath in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter, too, of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
- [Life]
Hear we not the hum of mighty workings?
- [Sublimity]
I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
- [Kisses]
If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all.
- [Poetry]
If you should have a Boy do not christen him John, and persuade George not to let his partiality for me come across--'T is a bad name, and goes against a Man--If my name had been Edmund I should have been more fortunate--
- in a letter to his sister-in-law, Georgiana Keats, January 13, 1820
[Names]
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see my country's honor fade;
Oh! let me see our land retain its soul!
Her pride in Freedom, and not Freedom's shade.
- [Freedom]
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu.
- [Joy]
Let me have music dying, and I seek no more delight.
- [Music]
Mild May's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
- [Roses]
Music's golden tongue.
- [Music]
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness.
- [Fear]
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, empower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine.
- [Sleep]
O! moon old boughs lisp forth a holier din,
The while they feel thine airy fellowship:
Thou dost bless everywhere with silver lip,
Kissing dead things to life.
- [Moon]
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
- [Poetry]
Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.
- [Poetry]
Scenery is fine--but human nature is finer.
- [Human Nature : Scenery]
Silken, chaste, and hushed.
- [Quiet]
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
- [Poetry]
English poet
(1795 - 1821)
A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
- [Thought]
A proverb is no proverb to you until life has illustrated it.
- [Proverbs (General)]
Albeit failure in any cause produces a correspondent misery in the soul, yet it is, in a sense, the highway to success, inasmuch as every discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true, and every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterward carefully eschew.
- [Failure]
And share the inward fragrance of each other's heart.
- [Sympathy]
Death is Life's high meed.
- [Death]
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
- [Bees]
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
- [Fancy]
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man;
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span;
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd-cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven; quiet coves
His soul hath in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness--to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter, too, of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
- [Life]
Hear we not the hum of mighty workings?
- [Sublimity]
I came to feel how far above
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood,
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good,
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
- [Kisses]
If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all.
- [Poetry]
If you should have a Boy do not christen him John, and persuade George not to let his partiality for me come across--'T is a bad name, and goes against a Man--If my name had been Edmund I should have been more fortunate--
- in a letter to his sister-in-law, Georgiana Keats, January 13, 1820
[Names]
In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see my country's honor fade;
Oh! let me see our land retain its soul!
Her pride in Freedom, and not Freedom's shade.
- [Freedom]
Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu.
- [Joy]
Let me have music dying, and I seek no more delight.
- [Music]
Mild May's eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
- [Roses]
Music's golden tongue.
- [Music]
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness.
- [Fear]
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleased eyes, empower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine.
- [Sleep]
O! moon old boughs lisp forth a holier din,
The while they feel thine airy fellowship:
Thou dost bless everywhere with silver lip,
Kissing dead things to life.
- [Moon]
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
- [Poetry]
Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.
- [Poetry]
Scenery is fine--but human nature is finer.
- [Human Nature : Scenery]
Silken, chaste, and hushed.
- [Quiet]
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,
And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
- [Poetry]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
