The deepest source of all calamities in history is misunderstanding. For where we do not understand, we can never be just.

Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore

Profession: Poet
Nationality: Indian

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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... Thy infinite gifts come to me only on those very small hand of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

I hear the thundering flood tumbling my life from world to world and form to form, scattering my being in an endless spray of gifts, in sorrowings and songs..

Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Cabuli fruit-seller, while I was—. But no, what was I more than he? He also was a father.

Thou didst not turn in contempt from my childish play among dust, and the steps that I heard in my playroom are the same that are echoing from star to star.

The great ocean, crooning its lullaby with one unceasing melody, lapped the island to sleep with a thousand soft touches of its wave's white hands.

Nirvana is not the blowing out of the candle. It is the extinguishing of the flame because day is come.

The roots below the earth claim no rewards for making the branches fruitful.

All the great utterances of man have to be judged not by the letter but by the spirit—the spirit which unfolds itself with the growth of life in history.

I have only one prayer to offer to God, and it is that when I have been driven out of every society He will give me shelter at His own feet.

Free me as free is the forest fire, as is the thunder that laughs aloud and hurls defiance to darkness.

The hidden clash of a silent conflict like this is far harder to bear than an open quarrel.

Beauty is sweet to us, because she dances to the same fleeting tune with our lives. Knowledge is precious to us, because we shall never have time to complete it. All is done and finished in the eternal Heaven. But earth's flowers of illusion are kept eternally fresh by death.

He who is too busy doing good finds no time to be good.

The mountain remains unmoved at seeming defeat by the mist.