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Best Famous Rabindranath Tagore Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Rabindranath Tagore poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rabindranath Tagore poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rabindranath Tagore poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Rabindranath Tagore poems.

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Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

The Land of the Exile

 Mother, the light has grown grey in the sky; I do not know what
the time is.
There is no fun in my play, so I have come to you.
It is Saturday, our holiday.
Leave off your work, mother; sit here by the window and tell me where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.
The shadow of the rains has covered the day from end to end.
The fierce lightning is scratching the sky with its nails.
When the clouds rumble and it thunders, I love to be afraid in my heart and cling to you.
When the heavy rain patters for hours on the bamboo leaves, and our windows shake and rattle at the gusts of wind, I like to sit alone in the room, mother, with you, and hear you talk about the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale.
Where is it, mother, on the shore of what sea, at the foot of what hills, in the kingdom of what king? There are no hedges there to mark the fields, no footpath across it by which the villagers reach their village in the evening, or the woman who gathers dry sticks in the forest can bring her load to the market.
With patches of yellow grass in the sand and only one tree where the pair of wise old birds have their nest, lies the desert of Tepantar.
I can imagine how, on just such a cloudy day, the young son of the king is riding alone on a grey horse through the desert, in search of the princess who lies imprisoned in the giant's palace across that unknown water.
When the haze of the rain comes down in the distant sky, and lightning starts up like a sudden fit of pain, does he remember his unhappy mother, abandoned by the king, sweeping the cow-stall and wiping her eyes, while he rides through the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale? See, mother, it is almost dark before the day is over, and thee are no travellers yonder on the village road.
The shepherd boy has gone home early from the pasture, and men have left their fields to sit on mats under the eaves of their huts, watching the scowling clouds.
Mother, I have left all my books on the shelf-do not ask me to do my lessons now.
When I grow up and am bid like my father, I shall learn all that must be learnt.
But just for today, tell me, mother, where the desert of Tepantar in the fairy tale is.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

The Chanpa Flower

 Supposing I became a chanpa flower, just for fun, and grew on a
branch high up that tree, and shook in the wind with laughter and
danced upon the newly budded leaves, would you know me, mother?
You would call, "Baby, where are you?" and I should laugh to
myself and keep quite quiet.
I should slyly open my petals and watch you at your work.
When after your bath, with wet hair spread on your shoulders, you walked through the shadow of the champ tree to the little court where you say your prayers, you would notice the scent of the flower, but not know that it cane from me.
When after the midday meal you sat at the window reading ramayana, and the tree's shadow fell over your hair and your lap, I should fling my wee little shadow on to the page of your book, just where you were reading.
But would you guess that it was the tiny shadow of your little child? When in the evening you went to the cow shed with the lighted lamp in your hand I should suddenly drop on to the earth again and be your own baby once more, and beg you to tell me a story.
"Where have you been, you naughty child?" "I won't tell you, mother.
" That's what you and I would say then.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

The Boat

 I must launch out my boat.
The languid hours pass by on the shore---Alas for me! The spring has done its flowering and taken leave.
And now with the burden of faded futile flowers I wait and linger.
The waves have become clamorous, and upon the bank in the shady lane the yellow leaves flutter and fall.
What emptiness do you gaze upon! Do you not feel a thrill passing through the air with the notes of the far-away song floating from the other shore?

More great poems below...

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

The Flower-School

 When storm-clouds rumble in the sky and June showers come down.
The moist east wind comes marching over the heath to blow its bagpipes among the bamboos.
Then crowds of flowers come out of a sudden, from nobody knows where, and dance upon the grass in wild glee.
Mother, I really think the flowers go to school underground.
They do their lessons with doors shut, and if they want to come out to play before it is time, their master makes them stand in a corner.
When the rain come they have their holidays.
Branches clash together in the forest, and the leaves rustle in the wild wind, the thunder-clouds clap their giant hands and the flower children rush out in dresses of pink and yellow and white.
Do you know, mother, their home is in the sky, where the stars are.
Haven't you see how eager they are to get there? Don't you know why they are in such a hurry? Of course, I can guess to whom they raise their arms; they have their mother as I have my own.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

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!'

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |


 You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
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?

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

Untimely Leave

 No more noisy, loud words from me---such is my master's will.
Henceforth I deal in whispers.
The speech of my heart will be carried on in murmurings of a song.
Men hasten to the King's market.
All the buyers and sellers are there.
But I have my untimely leave in the middle of the day, in the thick of work.
Let then the flowers come out in my garden, though it is not their time; and let the midday bees strike up their lazy hum.
Full many an hour have I spent in the strife of the good and the evil, but now it is the pleasure of my playmate of the empty days to draw my heart on to him; and I know not why is this sudden call to what useless inconsequence!

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

When and Why

 When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there
is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are
painted in tints-when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know 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 flower, 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 the summer breeze brings to my body-when I kiss you to make you smile.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

Stream Of Life

 The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day 
runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.
It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.
It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.
I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life.
And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |


 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.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

Lovers 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.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

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.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |


 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.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

Lovers 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.

Written by Rabindranath Tagore |

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.