Find and share the perfect poems.
He came and sat by my side but I woke not. What a cursed sleep it was, O miserable me!
He came when the night was still; he had his harp in his hands, and my dreams became resonant with its melodies.
Alas, why are all my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?
From Gitanjali (Macmillan and Company, 1916) by Rabindranath Tagore. This poem is in the public domain.
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may name thee my all.
Let only that little be left of my will whereby I may feel thee on every side, and come to thee in everything, and offer to thee my love every moment.
Let only that little be left of me whereby I may never hide thee.
Let only that little of my fetters be left whereby I am bound with thy will, and thy purpose is carried out in my life—and that is the fetter of thy love.
When it was day they came into my house and said, “We shall only take the smallest room here.”
They said, “We shall help you in the worship of your God and humbly accept only our own share of his grace”; and then they took their seat in a corner and they sat quiet and meek.
But in the darkness of night I find they break into my sacred shine, strong and turbulent, and snatch with unholy greed the offerings from God’s altar.