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