The young student sits with his head bent over his books, and his mind straying in youth's dreamland; where prose is prowling on the desk and poetry hiding in the heart.
Oh my only friend, my best beloved, the gates are open in my house—do not pass by like a dream.
In the drowsy dark cave of the mind dreams build their nest with fragments dropped from day's caravan.
My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.
Leave out my name from the gift if it be a burden, but keep my song.
Death is turning out the lamp because the dawn has appeared.
Days are coloured bubbles that float upon the surface of fathomless nights.
In the world's audience hall, the simple blade of grass sits on the same carpet with the sunbeams, and the stars of midnight.
[The poets' role is that of] capturing on their instruments the secret stir of life in the air and giving it voice in the music of prophecy
When I think of ages past That have floated down the stream Of life and love and death, I feel how free it makes us To pass away.
The meaning of the living words that come out of the experiences of great hearts can never be exhausted by any one system of logical interpretation. They have to be endlessly explained by the commentaries of individual lives, and they gain an added mystery in each new revelation.
This principle of opposites is at the very root of Creation, which is divided between the rule of the King and the Queen; Night and Day; the One and the Varied; the Eternal and the Evolving.
I am willing to serve my country, but my worship I reserve for Right which is far greater than my country. To worship my country as a god is to bring a curse upon it.
O poor, unthinking human heart! Error will not go away, logic and reason are slow to penetrate.We cling with both arms to false hope, refusing to believe in the weightiest proofs against it, embracing it with all our strength. In the end it escapes, ripping our veins and draining our heart's blood; until, regaining consciousness, we rush to fall into snares of delusion all over again
The singer alone does not make a song, there has to be someone who hears. -Broken Song
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action-Into that heaven of freedom, my father, let my country awake.
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.
I have read in books that we are called 'caged birds'. I cannot speak for others, but I had so much in this cage of mine that there was not room for it in the universe- at least that is what I then felt.
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!'
Our self (Soul), as a form of God's joy, is deathless. For his joy is amritham, eternal bliss. We know that the life of a Soul, which is finite in its expression and infinite in its principle, must go through the portals of death in its journey to realize the infinite.
God, the Great Giver, can open the whole universe to our gaze in the narrow space of a single land.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
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.
The tyrant claims freedom to kill freedom, and yet keep it for himself.
To the guests that must go, bid God's speed and brush away all traces of their steps.
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