البستاني Quotes

“My heart, the bird of the wilderness,
has found its sky in your eyes.
They are the cradle of the morning,
they are the kingdom of the stars.
My songs are lost in their depths.
Let me but soar in that sky,
in its lonely immensity.
Let me but cleave its clouds
and spread wings in its sunshine.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Dreams can never be made captive.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Who are you, reader, reading my poems a hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire. The gleaming vision flits on. I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray. I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Pleasure is frail like a dewdrop, while it laughs it dies. But
sorrow is strong and abiding. Let sorrowful love wake in your
eyes.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Why did the flower fade? I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“When you have finished with others, that is my time.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire. The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray. I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of my wine of pain.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“The Gardener: 41"

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I
dare not, for fear you should laugh.
That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.
I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I
dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.
That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of
what I mean.
I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare
not, fearing I should not be paid with like value.
That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous
strength.
I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come
out at my lips.
That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart
behind words.
I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my
cowardice should become known to you.
That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your
presence.
Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Is it true, is it true, that your love travelled alone through
ages and worlds in search of me?”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet. Let it not be a death but completeness. Let love melt into memory and pain into songs. Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest. Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night. Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence. I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“O woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also of men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their hearts. Poets are weaving for you a web with threads of golden imagery; painters are giving your form ever new immortality. The sea gives its pearls, the mines their gold, the summer gardens their flowers to deck you, to cover you, to make you more precious. The desire of men's hearts has shed its glory over your youth. You are one half woman and one half dream.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts. It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers in unfinished. This love between you and me is simple as a song. Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk. The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise. It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles. This love between you and me is simple as a song. No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark. This love between you and me is simple as a song. We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope. It is enough what we give and we get. We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the wine of pain. This love between you and me is simple as a song.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the
record of our hearts.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“58 One morning in the flower garden a blind girl came to offer me a flower chain in the cover of a lotus leaf. I put it round my neck, and tears came to my eyes. I kissed her and said, "You are blind even as the flowers are. You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Con biết chàng sẽ chẳng nhặt chuỗi hạt con ném xuống; con biết chuỗi hạt sẽ bị bánh xe chàng nghiến nát, để lại vết đỏ trên đường đất bụi; rồi chẳng ai hay vật con hiến dâng là gì và cũng chẳng ai biết con dâng hiến cho ai.

Thế nhưng, Hoàng tử trẻ tuổi năm ấy đã từng đi ngang cửa nhà ta; con cũng đã từng đem châu báu đẹp đẽ nhất đeo trước ngực ném xuống lối chàng qua.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“SERVANT. Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!

QUEEN. The assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Why do you come at this late hour?

SERVANT. When you have finished with others, that is my time.
I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do.

QUEEN. What can you expect when it is too late?

SERVANT. Make me the gardener of your flower garden.

QUEEN. What folly is this?

SERVANT. I will give up my other work.
I will throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests.
But make me the gardener of your flower garden.

QUEEN. What will your duties be?

SERVANT. The service of your idle days.
I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death.
I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves.
I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs.

QUEEN. What will you have for your reward?

SERVANT. To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there.

QUEEN. Your prayers are granted, my servant, you will be the gardener of my flower garden.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“When I go alone at night"

When I go alone at night to my
love-tryst, birds do not sing, the wind
does not stir, the houses on both sides
of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud
at every step and I am ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen
for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle
on the trees, and the water is still in
the river like the sword on the knees
of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly
--I do not know how to quiet it.
When my love comes and sits by
my side, when my body trembles and
my eyelids droop, the night darkens,
the wind blows out the lamp, and the
clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast
that shines and gives light. I do not
know how to hide it.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“My soul is alight with your infinitude of stars. Your world has broken upon me like a flood. The flowers of your garden blossom in my body. The joy of life that is everywhere burns like an incense in my heart. And the breath of all things plays on my life as on a pipe of reeds.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“The Gardener: When I go alone at night

When I go alone at night to my love-tryst, birds do not sing,
the wind does not stir, the houses on both sides of the street stand silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every step and I am ashamed.

When I sit on my balcony and listen for his footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees,
and the water is still in the river like the sword on the knees of a sentry fallen asleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly — I do not know how to quiet it.

When my love comes and sits by my side, when my body trembles and my eyelids droop,
the night darkens, the wind blows out the lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines and gives light — I do not know how to hide it.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Why did the lamp go out? I shaded it with my cloak to save it from the wind, that is why the lamp went out. Why did the flower fade? I pressed it to my heart with anxious love, that is why the flower faded. Why did the stream dry up? I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up. Why did the harp-string break? I tried to force a note that was beyond its power, that is why the harp-string is broken.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“never be taught." The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands." Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing. Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other. They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my love!" The free bird cries, "It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage." The cage bird whispers, "Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“If you would be busy and fill your pitcher, come, O come to my lake.
The water will cling round your feet and babble its secret. The shadow of the coming rain is on the sands, and the clouds hang low upon the blue lines of the trees like the heavy hair above your eyebrows.
I know well the rhythm of your steps, they are beating in my heart.
Come, O come to my lake, if you must fill your pitcher.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“I am listless, I am a wanderer in my heart.
In the sunny haze of the languid hours, what vast vision of thine takes shape in the blue of the sky!”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“At midnight the would-be ascetic announced: "This is the time to give up my home and seek for God. Ah, who has held me so long in delusion here?" God whispered, "I," but the ears of the man were stopped. With a baby asleep at her breast lay his wife, peacefully sleeping on one side of the bed. The man said, "Who are ye that have fooled me so long?" The voice said again, "They are God," but he heard it not. The baby cried out in its dream, nestling close to its mother. God commanded, "Stop, fool, leave not thy home," but still he heard not. God sighed and complained, "Why does my servant wander to seek me, forsaking me?”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Escúchame, tú, a quien no conozco pero que lees estos versos míos con cien años ya de existencia:

No puedo regalarte ni una flor de entre todas las que prodiga la primavera, ni una luz tan sólo de estas nubes doradas. Pero abre tus puertas y mira; recoge de entre las flores de tu jardín el perfumado recuerdo de las flores que se marchitaron hace ya cien años.

¡Ojalá consigas sentir en el gozo de tu corazón la alegría viva que te envío esta mañana de abril, a través de cien años, perfumando estos cantos dichosos!”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“[Tell me if this is all true]"

Tell me if this be all true, my lover, tell me if this be true.

When these eyes flash their lightning
the dark clouds in your breast make stormy answer.

Is it true that my lips are sweet
like the opening bud of the first conscious love?

Do the memories of vanished months of May linger in my limbs?

Does the earth, like a harp,
shiver into songs with the touch of my feet?

Is it then true that the dewdrops fall
from the eyes of night when I am seen,
and the morning light is glad when it wraps my body round?

Is it true, is it true, that your love travelled
alone through ages and worlds in search of me?

That when you found me at last, your age-long desire
found utter peace in my gentle speech
and my eyes and lips and flowing hair?

Is it then true that the mystery of the Infinite
is written on this little forehead of mine?

Tell me, my lover, if all this be true.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“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.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener

“Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings
over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the
night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last
words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.”
― Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener