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.
I ask my destiny – what power is this That cruelly drives me onward without rest? My destiny says, “Look round!” I turn back and see It is I myself that is ever pushing me from behind.
Life, like a child, laughs, shaking its rattle of death as it runs.
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 heart wants to go on; that is its dharma. For unless it moves, it dies.
We sit inert, like dead specimens of some museum, while lessons are pelted at us from on high, like hailstones on flowers.
The flower fades and dies; but he who wears the flower has not to mourn for it for ever.
Let the dead have the immortality of fame, but the living the immortality of love.
Bees sip honey from flowers and hum their thanks when they leave. The gaudy butterfly is sure that the flowers owe thanks to him.
April, like a child, Writes hieroglyphs on dust with flowers, Wipes them away and forgets.
The significance which is in unity is an eternal wonder.
The Taj Mahal rises above the banks of the river like a solitary tear suspended on the cheek of time.
The echo mocks her origin to prove she is the original.
The birth and death of leaves is part of that greater cycle that moves among the stars.
The child learns so easily because he has a natural gift, but adults, because they are tyrants, ignore natural gifts and say that children must learn through the same process that they learned by. We insist upon forced mental feeding and our lessons.
Our creation is the modification of relationship.
Our responsibility is no longer to acquire, but to BE.
Who are you, a hundred years from today, reading my poetry with curiosity?
Perhaps the crescent moon smiles in doubt at being told that it is a fragment awaiting perfection.
It dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances, it dances. It sports a mosaic of passions like a peacock’s tail, It soars to the sky with delight, it quests, Oh wildly, it dances today, my heart, like a peacock it dances.