Top 8 Most Beautiful Poems by the Poet Rabindranath Tagore

The Gift
O my love, what offering can I give you
At this break of dawn?
A morning melody, perhaps?
But the morning fades too soon—
The warmth of the sun
Will wither it like a flower
And songs that grow tiresome
Will fade away.
O friend, when you arrive at my door
In the evening
What is it you seek?
What shall I offer you?
A light?
A lamp from the quiet corner of my home?
But would you want to carry it
Through the crowded streets?
Alas,
The wind will snuff it out.

The gifts I can give you,
Whether flowers,
Or jewels for your neck,
How could they bring you joy
If, in time, they must wither,
Crack,
Lose their shine?
Everything I offer will slip through your fingers,
And fall forgotten to the earth
To turn into dust.

Instead,
When you have leisure,
Wander through my spring garden
And let the scent of a hidden, unknown flower surprise you
Into a moment of wonder—
Let that fleeting instant
Be my gift.
Or if, while strolling down a shaded path,
A glimmer of sunset spills
From the evening’s gathered tresses
And catches your eye,
Turning your daydreams into gold,
Let that light be an innocent
Gift.

The truest treasures are fleeting;
They sparkle for a moment and then vanish.
They do not announce themselves; their song
Stops us in our tracks, their dance disappears
With the rustle of an anklet.
There is no way to reach them—
No hand, no word can touch them.
Friend, whatever you take from them,
Without asking, without knowing, let that
Be yours.
For anything I can offer you is trivial—
Be it a flower, or a song.

Translation by Ngô Tằng Giao:

My love, what do I have
To give you this morning?
A song of dawn, perhaps?
But the morning will not last
The sun’s warmth
Will make it wither like a flower,
And even songs that once thrilled
Will fade away.
My love, if the day is bright
And you walk by my door
What will you ask for?
What will I give you?
A lamp?
A lamp from the corner of my quiet house?
But will you carry it
Through the crowded streets?
The wind will surely blow it out.

What gift can I give you?
Flowers,
Or jewels for your neck?
But they will wither,
Crack,
Lose their brilliance.
Whatever I give will slip from your hand
And fade to dust.

Instead, my dear,
When you wander the garden in spring,
Let the scent of a hidden flower
Startle you with its beauty—
Let that be my gift.
Or, as you walk down a shaded path,
Let a flicker of sunset light
Catch your eye and turn your daydreams to gold—
Let that light be my gift to you.

True treasure is fleeting,
It sparkles and fades.
It has no name, no song.
It slips away before we know it.
Friend, whatever you take from it,
Without asking or knowing, let that
Be yours.
Anything I can give you is small—
A flower, or a song.

The Kiss
The language of lips speaking to lips.
Two souls, drinking each other's hearts, it seems.
Two lovers, wandering far from home,
Pilgrims seeking the meeting of lips.
Two waves rising with the force of love
Only to crash and fade upon two pairs of lips.
Two wild desires yearning for each other
Finally meet at the limits of the body.
Love writes a song in delicate letters,
Layers of kiss-calligraphy etched on lips.
Plucking flowers from two pairs of lips
Perhaps to string them into a future together.
This sweet union of lips
Is the red marriage bed for two smiling hearts.

Translation by Minh Sơn Lê:

Poems of Love
Love adorns itself;
it seeks to show its inner joy through outward beauty.

Love does not seek to possess,
but offers freedom instead.

Love is an endless enigma,
for it has no explanation of its own.

Love’s gift cannot be given,
it waits patiently to be received.

Translation by Minh Sơn Lê:

Love decorates itself;
its beauty comes from the heart's own being.

Love does not demand or claim,
but grants the world the freedom to choose.

Love is a boundless mystery,
for it speaks no reason to explain itself.

Love does not plead or beg,
it simply waits to be embraced.

I cannot recall my mother,
except sometimes, amidst my play,
a melody seems to linger on my toys,
the tune of a song she used to hum while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
but when, on an early autumn morning,
the fragrance of shiuli flowers fills the air,
the scent of the morning temple service reaches me as my mother's fragrance.
I cannot remember my mother,
but when from my bedroom window I gaze into the vast blue of the sky,
I feel my mother’s silent gaze on my face
has spread across the entire sky.

Translation by Đào Xuân Quý:
I cannot clearly remember my mother
Only sometimes, in the midst of play,
I hear a voice that seems to float above my toys,
The voice of a song she used to softly sing as she rocked my cradle.
I cannot clearly remember my mother,
But when on an early autumn morning,
The fragrance of shiuli flowers fills the sky,
The scent from the temple service in the morning
comes to me like my mother’s scent.
I cannot clearly remember my mother,
Only when, from my bedroom window,
I gaze at the vast blue of the distant sky,
I feel my mother’s calm gaze
has spread across the heavens.

Source: Thơ Tago, NXB Văn hoá thông tin, 2001

61
You have given us life,
Let us uphold this honor with all our strength and will;
For your glory rests upon the glory we carry.
In your name, we stand against the powers that seek to mark our souls
with their banners of oppression.
Grant us to see that your light fades in the hearts shackled by chains,
and that life, when weakened, yields its throne to falsehood.
For weakness is the betrayer who deceives our souls.
Let this be our prayer:
Grant us the strength to resist the pleasures that enslave us.
Raise our sorrow to you as the midday sun lifts to the sky.
Make us strong so that our worship blooms in love and bears fruit in action.
Make us strong so that we do not insult the weak and fallen,
but hold our love high where everything around us is consumed by dust.
They fight and kill for self-love, giving it your name.
They fight for hunger that feeds on their brother's flesh,
they fight against your wrath and perish.
But grant us the strength to stand firm and endure
for Truth, for Goodness, for the Eternal in mankind,
for your Kingdom, which is the union of hearts,
for the freedom of the Soul.

Translation by Đào Xuân Quý:
You have granted us life,
Grant us to honor it with all our strength,
For your glory rests upon the glory we carry.
Therefore, in your name, we resist
the tyrants who seek to plant their banners on our souls.
Grant us to know that your light fades
in the heart that bears the insult of bondage.
For weakness betrays and deceives our souls.
Grant us this prayer:
Strength to resist pleasure where it enslaves us.
To raise our sorrow to you as the summer lifts the midday sun.
Grant us strength that our virtues may bloom in love and bear fruit in labor.
Grant us strength to protect the weak and fallen,
and to hold our love high where all is sinking in dust.
They fight and kill for selfishness, invoking your name.
They fight for hunger that feeds on their brothers’ flesh,
they fight against your anger and die.
But grant us the strength to endure
for the Eternal, for Truth, for Goodness in man,
for your Kingdom, where hearts unite,
for the freedom of the Soul.
1917
Source: Thơ Tago, NXB Văn hoá thông tin, 2001

Your eyes, full of questions, are filled with sadness. They seek to understand my meaning, as the moon seeks to understand the depths of the sea.

I have laid bare my life before you, with no secrets, no reservations. And yet, you still do not know me.

If it were a gem, I could shatter it into a hundred pieces and string them together as a necklace for you to wear.

If it were a flower, delicate and sweet, I could pluck it and place it in your hair.

But it is a heart, my love. How can you know the boundaries of its depths?

You may not know the full extent of this realm, yet you are its queen.

If it were only a fleeting joy, it would shine through in a gentle smile, and you could understand it instantly.

If it were just sorrow, it would dissolve into tears, silently reflecting its deepest secrets.

But it is love, my dearest.

Its joy and pain are infinite, as are its desires and riches.

It is as close to you as your own life, yet you will never truly know it all.

Translation:
Your questioning eyes are filled with melancholy, seeking to grasp the meaning of my words, just as the moon seeks to understand the depths of the ocean.

I have laid my life open before you, without hiding anything. Yet, you still do not truly know me.

If my life were a precious gem, I would break it into pieces, string them together, and place them around your neck.

If my life were a flower—small, sweet, and beautiful—I would pick it and place it in your hair.

But my life, dear, is a heart—how can you know its limits?

You rule this kingdom as its queen, but do you know its boundaries?

If my heart were a fleeting joy, it would show in a simple smile, and you would understand it at once.

If it were merely sorrow, it would dissolve into tears, revealing its deepest secrets without a word.

But my love, it is love itself.

Its joy and pain are boundless, as are its needs and abundance.

It resides with you as close as your own life, yet you will never fully understand it.

This poem was once included in the 11th-grade literature curriculum (1990-2006) with a translation by Đào Xuân Quý. It has since been moved to the 'additional reading' section in the 11th-grade literature textbook (from 2007 onwards).

Clouds and Waves
MOTHER, the people living up in the clouds call to me.
We play from dawn till dusk, with the golden morning and the silver moon.
I ask, “How can I reach you?” They reply, “Go to the edge of the earth, raise your hands to the sky, and you will be carried up into the clouds.”
“But my mother waits for me at home,” I say. “How can I leave her and come?”
They smile and float away.
But I know a more beautiful game than that, Mother.
I’ll be the cloud, and you’ll be the moon.
I’ll cover you with both my hands, and our home will be the blue sky.
The people in the waves call to me—
“We sing all day long, traveling on and on, not knowing where we are.”
I ask, “How can I join you?” They say, “Go to the shore, stand with your eyes closed, and the waves will carry you away.”
“But my mother wants me home by evening,” I answer. “How can I leave her?”
They smile, dance, and move on.
But I know a better game than theirs.
I’ll be the waves, and you’ll be the distant shore.
I’ll roll endlessly, laughing as I crash into your arms.
And no one will ever know where we are.

Translation by Nguyễn Đình Thi:

Mother, who calls me from the high clouds?
They say: “We play from dawn till night,
Playing with the golden morning and the silver moon.”
I ask, “But how can I get up there?”
They answer, “Go to the edge of the earth, raise your hands to the sky, and you’ll be lifted into the clouds.”
But I say, “My mother waits for me at home. How can I leave her?”
They smile and float away.
But I know a better game than theirs.
I will be the cloud, and you will be the moon,
And I will cover you with both my hands, and our home will be the blue sky.
Mother, who calls me from the waves below?
“We sing all day long, traveling endlessly, not knowing where we go.”
I ask, “How can I follow you?”
They say, “Go to the shore, stand still with your eyes closed, and the waves will carry you.”
But I reply, “What about my mother who calls for me at night? How can I leave her?”
They smile, dance, and move on.
But I know a better game than theirs.
I’ll be the waves, and you’ll be the distant shore.
I’ll roll on and on, crashing into you with laughter.
And no one will ever know where we are.

Poem 1
You have made me endless, and such is your will. You empty this fragile vessel again and again, only to fill it once more with fresh life.

This little reed flute, you have carried it across hills and valleys, breathing into it melodies that are ever new.

At the eternal touch of your hands, my small heart loses its boundaries in joy, and gives birth to expressions beyond words.

Your infinite gifts come to me only through these tiny hands of mine. Ages pass, and yet you continue to pour, and still, there is room to fill.

Translation by Đỗ Khánh Hoan:

For your own joy, you have made me infinite. This frail body, like a small boat, you have emptied time and again, and refilled it with an everlasting, refreshing life.

This reed body of mine, so thin, you have carried over mountains, across hills and through valleys, breathing eternal melodies into it.

When your immortal hands tenderly caress me, my heart overflows with joy and utters words that cannot be described.

Your boundless gifts come to me only through these very small hands of mine. Time passes in layers, yet you keep pouring, and my heart still has room to receive.