वैसे रवीन्द्रनाथ सूफी रहस्यवाद और वैष्णव काव्य से प्रभावित थे । फिर भी संवेदना चित्रण में वे इन कवियों को अनुकृति नहीं लगते । जैसे मनुष्य के प्रति प्रेम अनजाने ही परमात्मा के प्रति प्रेम में तब्दील हो जाता है । वे नहीं मानते कि भगवान किसी आदम बीज की तरह है । उनके लिए प्रेम है प्रारंभ और परमात्मा है अंत जब पहले पहल गीतांजलि का अनुवाद आया अंग्रेजी में तब प्रेम और शांति का संदेश के लिए इसका पश्चिम ने जबर्दस्त स्वागत किया । वह दौर ही ऐसा था ।
एक ऐसे अबोध युवक की कहानी जो पहले अपने प्रेम को समझ नहीं पाया और जब जाना-समझा तो बहुत देर हो चुकी थी। फिर एक ही रात में उसका पूरा जीवन सार्थक कैसे बन जाता है...?
पति अपनी पत्नी के प्रेम में आसक्त है; पत्नी अनजान है या अबोध वह नहीं जानता... पर पत्नी का मन जीतने के लिये अटल है, आत्म-संयमित है; वह अपने कर्त्तव्य एवं अधिकार समझता है और दाम्पत्य जीवन की नैतिक मर्यादाएं भी... क्या ऐसा एक तरफा प्रेम सफल हो सकता है? एक ऐसे पात्र की कहानी जिसकी मृत माँ अपने पुत्र के नैतिक मार्ग से विचलित होते ही उसके कवच का रूप धारण कर लेती है।
Thus, over Life's outward aspect passes the series of events, and within is being painted a set of pictures. The two correspond but are not one.
We do not get the leisure to view thoroughly this studio within us. Portions of it now and then catch our eye, but the greater part remains out of sight in the darkness. Why the ever-busy painter is painting; when he will have done; for what gallery his pictures are destined—who can tell?
Some years ago, on being questioned as to the events of my past life, I had occasion to pry into this picture-chamber. I had thought to be content with selecting some few materials for my Life's story. I then discovered, as I opened the door, that Life's memories are not Life's history, but the original work of an unseen Artist. The variegated colours scattered about are not reflections of outside lights, but belong to the painter himself, and come passion-tinged from his heart; thereby unfitting the record on the canvas for use as evidence in a court of law.
But though the attempt to gather precise history from memory's storehouse may be fruitless, there is a fascination in looking over the pictures, a fascination which cast its spell on me.
The road over which we journey, the wayside shelter in which we pause, are not pictures while yet we travel—they are too necessary, too obvious. When, however, before turning into the evening resthouse, we look back upon the cities, fields, rivers and hills which we have been through in Life's morning, then, in the light of the passing day, are they pictures indeed. Thus, when my opportunity came, did I look back, and was engrossed.
STRAY birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away.
And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh.
O TROUPE of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words.
THE world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover.
It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal.
IT is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom.
THE mighty desert is burning for the love of a blade of grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away.
IF you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.
HE sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing water. Will you carry the burden of their lameness?
HER wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night.
ONCE we dreamt that we were strangers.
We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.
Tagore attempted to express in his poetry the divine spirit that he glimpsed in nature. W.B. Yeats noted that his poetry had “an innocence, a simplicity that one does not find elsewhere in nature.” It touches the soul with its serenity and lyrical quality. Gitanjali is truly a treasured companion on life’s long journey.
This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.
At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.
Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.
When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.
All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony-and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.
I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.