SOME unseen fingers, like idle breeze,
are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples.
'WHAT language is thine, O sea?'
The language of eternal question.'
'What language is thy answer, O sky?
'The language of eternal silence.'
to the whispers of the world
with which it makes love to you.
THE mystery of creation
is like the darkness of night—
it is great.
Delusions of knowledge are like
the fog of the morning.
DO not seat your love upon a precipice because it is high.
I SIT at my window this morning
where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment,
nods to me and goes.
THESE little thoughts are the rustle of leaves;
they have their whisper of
joy in my mind.
WHAT you are you do not see,
what you see is your shadow.
MY wishes are fools, they shout across thy songs, my Master.
Let me but listen.
I CANNOT choose the best.
The best chooses me.
More Poems by Rabindranath Tagore