My heart leaps up when I behold
A Rainbow in the sky:
He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea;
climbed through, slid under those long banks of
Chalti Chakki Dekh Kar, Diya Kabira Roye
Dui Paatan Ke Beech Mein,Sabit Bacha Na
by Kabir
53 lines, 26 comments
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
The green-blue ground
is ruled with silver lines
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love;
He seemed to know the harbour, So leisurely he swam;
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
Thou sorrow, venom Elfe:
Is this thy play,
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Jab Tun Aaya Jagat Mein, Log Hanse Tu Roye Aise Karni Na Kari, Pache Hanse Sab Koye
by Kabir
74 lines, 11 comments
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
I must tell you
this young tree
His head between his hands, the dreamer weaves
His dream of clouds and Autumn-colored leaves.
The wind stood up and gave a shout. He whistled on his fingers and
This is the way that autumn came to the trees:
it stripped them down to the skin,
The day was clear as fire,
the birds sang frail as glass,
Sure on this shining night
Of star made shadows round,
I reach deep into my lonely mind and carve out a full moon.
High into night’s starry sky I hang it like a mirror.
As fall the leaves, so drop the days
In silence from the tree of life;
THE snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night
When over the flowery, sharp pasture's edge, unseen, the salt ocean
The old orchard, full of smoking air,
Full of sour marsh and broken boughs, is there,
This life that we call our own
Is neither strong nor free;
Till dawn the winds' insuperable throng passed over like archangels in their might,
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