The Gardener

by Rabindranath Tagore

Translated by the author from the original Bengali

Genres: Poetry, Classics, India, Fiction, Literature, Indian Literature, Nobel Prize

150 pages, Hardcover

Published January 1, 1938

About the author

Awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913 "because of his profoundly sensitive, fresh and beautiful verse, by which, with consummate skill, he has made his poetic thought, expressed in his own English words, a part of the literature of the West."

Tagore modernised Bengali art by spurning rigid classical forms and resisting linguistic strictures. His novels, stories, songs, dance-dramas, and essays spoke to topics political and personal. Gitanjali (Song Offerings), Gora (Fair-Faced), and Ghare-Baire (The Home and the World) are his best-known works, and his verse, short stories, and novels were acclaimed—or panned—for their lyricism, colloquialism, naturalism, and unnatural contemplation. His compositions were chosen by two nations as national anthems: India's Jana Gana Mana and Bangladesh's Amar Shonar Bangla.

The complete works of Rabindranath Tagore (রবীন্দ্র রচনাবলী) in the original Bengali are now available at these third-party websites:
http://www.tagoreweb.in/
http://www.rabindra-rachanabali.nltr....

Reviews

[Maria Clara · Rating 2 out of 5]

Soy yo, en este caso no queda duda, pero no he sabido encontrar magia en ninguno de sus poemas. De todas maneras, me ha gustado descubrir a este autor y adentrarme en su mundo. Hacerlo siempre nos aporta una mirada diferente a una zona de confort que no es la nuestra ❤️

[Jareed · Rating 4 out of 5]

“It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening
again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

No mystery beyond the present; no striving for the impossible; no
shadow behind the charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.

We do not stray out of all words into the ever silent; we do not
raise our hands to the void for things beyond hope.
It is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to wring from it the
wine of pain.
This love between you and me is simple as a song.”

One of my favorite excerpts from this wonderful book. It is amazing to read Rabindranath Tagore, a Bengali polymath, a hundred and one years after he received his Nobel Prize for Literature, a hundred and one years after being the first non-European awardee of the Nobel. The Gardener is a book of poetry. In the beginning, a modest servant pleads to the queen to be her gardener. She asks the reason why. He answers, the simplicity of which carries a subtle unfathomable heartbreaking depth. But perhaps, the servant turned gardener was compelled, inescapably, by an unrequited impermissible love for the queen, the kind that makes you queasy and uncharacteristically giddy all around, for much of this book contains aphorism, euphemisms, and ruminations for love in its varying forms, shortcomings and eternal joys, or perhaps the Gardener wanted the queen to know the real beauty of life, as ponderings in life too are contained in it. Tagore's use of colloquial language is spiritual and mercurial. There is depth in his rich use of imagery and allegories and one can read this in varying degrees but it is strange that at the same time it is straightforward in its delivery that it taxes credulity knowing this has been written a century before. And I think, it too is wonderful how he ended this work. Strange and beautiful.

"Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the
spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.”

“From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the
vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang
one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred
years."

This book forms part of my remarkably extensive reading list on Nobel Prize for Literature Awardees

This review has been cross-posted at imbookedindefinitely

[cọng rơm · Rating 5 out of 5]

ngày xưa đi học bị bắt học thơ Tagore hiểu gì chết liền ._. =))) không biết mấy đứa nhỏ khác thì sao chớ đứa nhỏ là mình thì không thấy thơ của ông có gì hay cả o.o :-s (chắc mọi người đều thấy hay hết hả, huhu)
ờ, thôi kệ (tự an ủi bãng thâng), nếu mọi thứ đều có nguyên nhân, vậy thì ngày xưa không thấy hay chắc là để ngày sau (ngày nay) tình cờ gặp lại Tagore giữa đường, đọc được một câu đẹp tiệc zời nín thở rồi đọc lại bao nhiêu câu đẹp tiệc zời nín thở
hehe
sống dài lâu thiệt có ích hen, có cơ hội thấy được những điều đẹp đẽ năm năm tháng tháng mình đã lỡ làng bỏ qua :D

[Tanja]

and still reading...and i will read it for whole my life...

[Зоран Филиповић · Rating 5 out of 5]

Књига најлепших љубавних песама, боље се не могу наћи. Успут, служи као корисно упутство које лепе и нежне речи треба да упућује мушкарац жени у коју је заљубљен.

[Melinda · Rating 4 out of 5]

Tagore shares with the reader a collection of the most beautiful love poems in The Gardner. Set in the Bengali countryside, Tagore's poems will capture the emotions plunged deepest in your heart. Tagore is your voice for all you've wanted to drip off your tongue but lack the talent to put into words.

Tagore's writing is straightforward, difficult to believe his work is one hundred years old. Amazing and powerful prose that will pluck your heartstrings.

[aLena · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ovo možda nije najbolja knjiga sa kojom sam se susrela, ali je sasvim sigurno jedna od najljepših i vraćat ću joj se cijeloga života. Gradinar ili Vrtlar (1913.) sastoji se od 85 pjesama u prozi. Glavna tema Tagoreove lirike je ljubav – prema ženi, prirodi, čovječanstvu i svijetu uopće. Pjesnik nas poziva da se za ovog kratkog života posvetimo nečemu većem od sebe i prigrlimo to na svoja njedra, a šta je ljepše i veće od ljubavi. Uživanje za Tagorea nije vrhunac i jedini cilj ljubavi, ona nije samo fizička, nego duhovna i uzvišena.

Držim joj ruke i stežem je na svoje grudi.
Pokušavam da ispunim svoje naručje njenom ljupkošću,
da poljupcima opljačkam njen sladak osmijeh,
da očima svojim ispijem njene tamne poglede.
Ali avaj, gdje je to sve?
Ko može lišiti nebo njegova plavetnila?
Pokušavam da shvatim ljepotu, ali
mi ona izmiče i ostavlja mi na
rukama samo tijelo.
Prevaren i umoran, vraćam se.
Kako može tijelo dotaći cvijet koji
smije da dodirne jedino duša?

Kroz Tagoreovu poeziju jako je vidljivo indijsko učenje o cikličnosti života. Promjene su neizbježne, prirodno je roditi se i umrijeti. Sve umire, dan, godina, drvo, pa tako i čovjek. Iza mrtvog dana i mrtve godine dolazi novi dan i nova godina. Na mjestu mrtvog cvijeta i drveta niknuće novo cvijeće i drveće. Dok čita njegove pjesme, čovjek ne može da ne osjeća sreću što je živ. Tagore je optimista, slavi život i optimistično ga naziva besmrtnošću na nekoliko časova.

Da dođe i sama kraljevska vojska da nas gnjevno napadne,
zatresli bismo tužno glave svoje i rekli:
Braćo, smetate nam.
Ako vam je potrebna ta hučna igra, onda idite,
neka zazveči vaše oružje na drugome mjestu.
Mi smo besmrtni postali samo za nekoliko časova.

Malo je pjesnika koji obožavaju prirodu kao Tagore, opčinjen je i zadivljen njenim detaljima, pa nam tako u svakoj pjesmi nudi detaljne slike okoline, približava nam njene različite oblike i boje. Zato je ovu zbirku najbolje čitati na plaži u hladu neke palme, ili na klupi u parku, sa pogledom na lipe i topole. Bosih nogu, po mogućnosti.

U posljednjoj pjesmi obraća se direktno čitaocu, ona je posveta i poruka optimizma tebi koji ćeš (nadam se!) pročitati ovu zbirku.

Ko si ti, čitaoče, koji ćeš poslije jednoga stoljeća čitati pjesme moje?
Ne mogu ti poslati nijedan cvijet od ovog proljetnog bogatstva,
nijednu traku zlata sa ovih oblaka gore.
Otvori vrata svoja i gledaj u daljinu.
U svom cvijetnom vrtu skupljaj mirisne spomene
na minulo cvijeće prije stotinu ljeta.
U radosti svoga srca da osjetiš živu radost koja je pjevala
jednog proljetnjeg jutra – šaljući svoj veseli glas preko stotinu ljeta.

Poznajem ljude koji ne vole poeziju i kojima se ova zbirka nije dopala, ni meni se uglavnom ne dopadaju ti ljudi.

[Bojana · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ova knjiga je dokaz da muškarci pišu najlepše ljubavne stihove (izvinite, žene).

[mahtiel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Love unexpressed is sacred. It shines like gems in the gloom of the hidden heart. In the light of the curious day it looks pitifully dark.
(...)
I hoped my love would be saved from shivering shame of the shelterless, but you turn your face away.
Yes, your path lies open before you, but you have cut off my return, and left me stripped naked before the world with its lidless eyes staring night and day.

This kind of poetry isn't normally something I would reach for in a library, if it weren't for a recommendation from a dear friend. I must say that firstly I felt I like I was reading Kahlil Gibran, who I don't care much for, but as I worked my way through this sweet little book, I felt a rising affinity to Tagore.

Why did the stream dry up?
I put a dam across it to have it for my use, that is why the stream dried up.

So, I let myself get immersed into his words, which are not easy to define either as poetry or prose. The book is also special, because the author translated it from Bengali into English by himself. I was actually lucky enough to get to read the 1938's second reprint of that first edition that came out just three years earlier, which definitely magnified the old-timey experience.

The book's loose concept of all kind of stories told as if from the garden of Earth sometimes left me cold, but other times hit quite close to home. I suppose it brought out the things that were left unspoken in me. These very delicate personal confessions often turn out quite banal when put into words, so we rather keep them for ourselves. The mastery of poets like Tagore is precisely in being capable of expressing our experience of life, death, love and pain with beauty and dignity they rightfully deserve.

Peace, my heart, let the time for the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a moment, and say your last words in silence.
I bow to you and hold up my lamp to light you on your way.

Finally, this is why I choose to include so many quotations in this review. As I read the book, I kept marking the pages, writing down my progress more than I use to, I even spilled it over my facebook wall and shared the verse with a friend it reminded me of... therefore the conclusion for anyone who might be interested in what I think is simple: just go, read it and see how it affects you.

I spent my day on the scorching hot dust of the road.
... but no lighted lamp awaited me when I came here.
The black smudges of smoke left by many a forgotten evening lamp stare, like blind eyes, from the wall.
Fireflies flit in the bush near the dried-up pond, and bamboo branches fling their shadows on the grassgrown path.
I am the guest of no one at the end of my day.
The long night is before me, and I am tired.

[T.R. · Rating 4 out of 5]

How wonderful and strange to read Tagore in 2013, a full hundred years since his receiving the Nobel Prize in literature. The Gardener is wonderful because Tagore's poetry, ranging from rumination to rhapsody, mixes rural settings and nature so evocatively with his internal world of thoughts and feelings. I particularly liked a few verses on the ephemeral nature of beauty and loss, on growing old, on the connection between human and animal beings, and on what the Earth provides. And reading The Gardener a 100 years later is strange because of what he writes in his final stanza:

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?
I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the
spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.
Open your doors and look abroad.
From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the
vanished flowers of an hundred years before.
In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang
one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred
years.

[Pavle · Rating 3 out of 5]

Da mi je poezija imalo jasna, možda bih mogao mnogo više da cenim ovu zbirku. Verovatno to i zaslužuje. A pošto (i dalje) nije, trojka, jer uprkos Tagoreovoj fascinantnoj lirici, od osamdeset i pet pesama koje sam pročitao, mogu da se setim svega pet-šest. U trenutku čitanja sjajno, momenat posle zaboravno.

3

[Arnis · Rating 4 out of 5]

https://poseidons99.wordpress.com/201...

[Preetam Chatterjee · Rating 5 out of 5]

I read The Gardener in 2002—not because anyone told me to, but because something in the title whispered to me like a half-forgotten melody from childhood. I was still new to the fuller depths of Tagore, though Gitanjali had already left its golden footprints on my soul. But this—this was different. Here, Rabindranath wasn’t a sage atop a cosmic hill. He was barefoot in the garden, whispering verses into the soft dusk.

Eighty-five poems. Each one felt like dew on my inner leaves. I remember sitting by my window during those balmy Kolkata evenings, the kind where the air tastes of mango bark and rising dust. I didn’t read the book straight through. I listened to it. The monologues in The Gardener aren’t really meant for quick consumption. They are whispers, sometimes from a village girl to a silent prince, sometimes from a mortal to a divine presence just out of reach.

There was one line I underlined, over and over again:

“You came down from your throne and stood at my cottage door.”

I read that line and put the book down. Sat still for ten minutes. That’s what Tagore does—he enters quietly, and before you realize it, he’s rearranged your emotional furniture.

It wasn’t just a book about romantic love. It was about presence. Waiting. Offering. A kind of longing so tender that it felt holy. The gardener is not just a lover—he is every one of us who waits. Who waters love. Who watches others walk by with garlands and bouquets, and still hopes.

What amazed me was how these English translations—done by Tagore himself—felt so rich, and yet so restrained. It wasn’t florid. It was true. You could feel the Bengali undercurrent beneath the English. The cadence of Kshanika and Shesh Lekha weaving through free verse like a river over pebbles.

2002 was also a year I had started thinking of love differently—not as conquest or excitement, but as something more generous. More quiet. The Gardener felt like it had been written for that exact moment in my life.

I remember writing in my diary: “Tagore has planted something in me. A seed that won’t bloom overnight. But it will.”

Looking back, I think that was right. It still blooms—in my way of loving, in how I sit with solitude, in how I write. Tagore didn’t just show me what love looks like in poetry. He showed me what love sounds like in silence.

And even now, when the world grows too loud, I return to those poems. To the village girl, to the humble gardener, to the divine stranger at the door. And I wait.

[Bonny · Rating 4 out of 5]

This is an excellent collection of Indian poetry rich in imagery and allegory. Very fresh and incredibly creative. I will read again.

Here are two I liked:

Baby's World

I wish I could take a quiet corner in the heart of my baby's very
own world.
I know it has stars that talk to him, and a sky that stoops
down to his face to amuse him with its silly clouds and rainbows.
Those who make believe to be dumb, and look as if they never
could move, come creeping to his window with their stories and with
trays crowded with bright toys.
I wish I could travel by the road that crosses baby's mind,
and out beyond all bounds;
Where messengers run errands for no cause between the kingdoms
of kings of no history;
Where Reason makes kites of her laws and flies them, the Truth
sets Fact free from its fetters.


A Moments Indulgence

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side. The works
that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,
and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and
the bees are plying their minstrelsy at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quite, face to face with thee, and to sing
dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

[Vasya · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is just so wonderful. I especially love the translation that was done in Serbian more than that in English, maybe because it's my mother language, but I always feel more when I read in Serbian (there are no Serbian editions on this book, so I had to use this one instead).

The first part between the slave and the queen is so heartbreaking in it's simplicity, and yet so complicated in its complexity, that you are left with two impressions - that you have witnessed something magical and at the same time so mysterious that you can entirely put your finger on it.

I loved it.

[Anja Zečević · Rating 5 out of 5]

Od nekog letnjeg raspusta pre skoro 10 godina pamtim da je danima padala kiša i da sam čitala *nešto* i u tom *nečemu * sam pročitala:,, Nismo iscedili i poslednju kap radosti da iz nje pravimo vino patnje svoje'', pa sam nastavila da to pamtim sve do danas, a to je nešto, ispostaviće se, bio Gradinar

[Pavle · Rating 2 out of 5]

Tagorini stihovi mi pomalo liče na mudrosti sa fejzbuka. Vrte se oko nekih opštih mesta, a često su i pomalo banalni. Sad, naravno, Tagore piše mnogo pre fejzbuka pa je ovo poređenje možda malo naopako. Ne umem da procenim da li on upada u opšta mesta u ovim pesmama, ili ih svojim pesmama definiše. Dešava se da neko napiše nešto toliko originalno i dobro da to svi kopiraju do te mere da, kada konačno pročitamo original posle mora dela koje je inspirisao, on deluje izanđalo. Nemam pojma da li se to ovde desilo, ali znam definitivno da mi baš nije prijala ova zbirka.

Jedna stvar koja mi se posebno nije svidela je veličanje ideje ljubavi naspram ljubavi same (npr, u 56: Osveštana je ljubav koja se nije ispovedila. Ona sija kao dragi kamen u ognju skrivena srca. U svetlosti ljubopitljivog dana gleda ona tužno i žalosno, ili, u 59: O ženo, ti nisi samo Božiji stvor već i ljudski ... Žudnja muških srca prostrla je svoj sjaj preko tvoje mladosti. Ti si pola žena, a pola san. ). Ovo se viđa relativno često u poeziji (kao ono Dučićevo Ostaj nedostižna, nema i daleka jer je san o sreći više nego sreća ... na Suncu mog srca ti si samo sjala jer sve što ljubimo – stvorili smo sami ili ono Ne, nemoj mi prići ... sreća je lepa samo dok se čeka Desanke Maksimović), a mene dosta užasava kako baca zaljubljenost u senku samozaljubljenosti, i realnu lepotu i ljubav u senku neke izmišljene fantazije.

Nadao sam se boljem.

[Soycd · Rating 5 out of 5]

"Unos andan por el camino, otros pasean, algunos son libres, otros están encadenados, y mi corazón pesa en mis pies."

En “El Jardinero” Tagore se propone homenajear al amor y la naturaleza y logra alcanzar la perfección. Es mi segundo libro del premio Nobel después de su aclamado "Gitanjali" y los dos han sido realmente maravillosos. Recomendado.

El pájaro preso vivía en una jaula, y el pájaro libre en el bosque.
Se encontraron por azar. El pájaro libre grita: ‘Amor mío, volemos hacia el bosque’.
El pájaro preso murmura: ‘Ven aquí, vivamos juntos en la jaula’.
‘Entre estos barrotes, ¿podré extender mis alas?’ dice el pájaro libre. ‘Ay, lamenta el prisionero, yo no sabría posarme en el cielo’.
‘Amor mío, ven conmigo a cantar las canciones del bosque’. ‘Quédate junto a mí. Te enseñaré una música muy hermosa’.
El pájaro del bosque replica: ‘No, no. No se pueden enseñar las canciones’.
El pájaro enjaulado dice: ‘Ay, yo no conozco los cantos de los bosques’.
Tienen sed de amor, pero no pueden volar ala con ala.
Se miran a través de los barrotes de la jaula, pero su deseo es inútil.
Aletean y cantan: ‘Acércate más, amor mío’.
El pájaro libre grita: ‘No puedo, las puertas cerradas de tu jaula me dan miedo’.
‘Ay, dice el cautivo, mis alas no tienen fuerza, han muerto’.

[Ashutosh Parauha · Rating 5 out of 5]

"I run as a musk-deer runs in the shadow of the forest mad with his own perfume.
The night is the night of mid-May, the breeze is the breeze of the south.
I lose my way and I wander, I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek.

From my heart comes out and dances the image of my own desire. The gleaming vision flits on.
I try to clasp it firmly, it eludes me and leads me astray.
I seek what I cannot get, I get what I do not seek."

This book can be read in hours but should be read in days as it takes time to sink in all the love expressed in this poetry. Beautifully written. I wish I knew Bengali to read the original version.

[carlos carroll · Rating 4 out of 5]

«La quiero agarrar, y se me va; y ya lejos, me llama otra vez desde el atajo... Y quiero lo que no tengo, y lo que tengo no lo quiero.»

Apenas estoy adentrándome en este amplio campo de la poesía; creo, si mal no estoy, que este es el segundo libro que leo de este género.

Me está gustando mucho leer poesía, en el desayuno y en el almuerzo, y quisiera tener un repertorio más amplio de poetas, pero todo a su tiempo.

Recomiendo este libro, sus poemas van desde la belleza hasta la naturaleza, desde lo oscuro hasta lo cómico, se siente completo.

«Mujer, eres mitad mujer y mitad sueño.»

[Mohamed Awada · Rating 4 out of 5]

Beautiful poetry. I especially loved the sixth poem in this collection (the conversation between the caged bird and the free bird), and it was inspiring to read the last poem in this collection more than a century after it was written (since he was foreseeing that we would be reading it a hundred years from then.)

[Asha Seth · Rating 4 out of 5]

If you think Gitanjali is his most mind-blowing work, you have yet to soak into this collection. Some of his best poems in this collection; few just 4 lines long but packed with unbelievable intensity of emotions; whether that is love or melancholy or happiness or longings.

[Mais · Rating 4 out of 5]

ولكنّ سِحر الرياح التي لا مستقرَّ لها
قد أصابني
..
لنْ أُلقي بالاً الى قلبي
و كلُّ ما أملكه تركته ورائي.

[Eva Siagian · Rating 5 out of 5]

Saya menyukai syair-syair Tagore dalam buku ini, meski banyak juga yang saya tidak paham, namun secara rima (dalam terjemahan Indonesia) menyenangkan untuk disajakkan dan penggunaan kata-kata indah yang tidak lazim namun enak dibaca sungguh mengangkat apresiasi saya terhadap bahasa Indonesia yang dapat mewakili keindahan syair Tagore.

Perasaan saya pun selama membaca syair Tagore ini sukacita dan mendapat suntikan semangat untuk melakukan pembaruan dalam kehidupan.

Saya ingin mengutip syair terakhir dalam buku ini, sekedar mengingatkan saya di masa yang akan datang jika ingin membaca kembali syair Tagore dan terlebih lagi saat membaca syair ini, seakan Tagore berbicara kepada saya :)

Siapakah engkau, Pembaca, membaca sajakku seabad lama?
Tak dapat aku mengirimkan padamu setangkai bunga pun dari kemewahan musim semi ini, segaris kencana dari awan-awan di jauh sana.
Bukalah pintumu dan pandanglah ke luar.
Dari kebunmu yang lagi berkembang kumpulkanlah kenangan wangi bunga-bunga yang lenyap seabad lampau.
Dalam kegirangan hatimu semoga kau merasai kegembiraan yang hidup, yang menyanyikan pagi musim semi, memancarkan suara rianya lintas seabad masa.

[Iracema Miel · Rating 4 out of 5]

Ciento diez años después de haberse escrito, leo este libro y el poema final te deja lívido. Tagore me habla. A mi, a ti, a nosotros: "¿Quién eres tú, lector que has de leer mis poemas dentro de cien años?"
Extraño y hermoso.

Lo he disfrutado, es sencillo, su lenguaje jamás es rebuscado.
Mezcla de la tierra, la vida, la naturaleza, la belleza, la vejez. Es lo que observa convertido en poesía. La conexión existente entre animales, seres humanos y naturaleza.

Me habría gustado leerlo en lectura conjunta con alguien que valore la poesía más que yo.
(Así me pasa con la biblia, que gustaría de leerla con alguien que la ame pero que carezca de religión para que sea imparcial y me muestre la literatura o la magia desde la inteligencia, la historia, la investigación y el sentido común, no desde lecciones impuestas, aprendidas y transmitidas desde la ceguera.)

Alguien que me enseñe a "estremecerme" con el sentido de un verso. Existen, hay muchos lectores que se conectan. Y eso es lo que me faltó: la conexión. No eres tú, Tagore, no son tus versos; soy yo, que me mezclo mejor con poesía de éste, mi tiempo y de ésta, mi miseria.

[Rachit Singh · Rating 4 out of 5]

This book was a refreshing kick-starter to get me out of my reading block. I was always interested in reading Tagore's books but somehow never got around to it. The Gardener is a lovely compilation of poems that elegantly covers topics of love, life, nature and everything in between. A major chunk of the poems follow a lyric and prose poetry form. Often times, the captivating lines took me on a journey and forced me to imagine the people or the scene being described; with closed eyes.

Overall, it was a light, heartwarming and often thought-provoking read and I would definitely revisit it in coming years.

[Bogdan Raț · Rating 4 out of 5]

- Cititorule, cine ești tu, oare,
care-mi citești poemele-acestea
și după o sută de ani? ...
Nu-ți pot trimite nici o singură floare
din belșugul acestei primăveri,
nici un singur licăr de aur
din norii de-acolo, împurpurați de lumini...
Deschide-ți larg ușile și privește afară!
Din propria ta grădină în floare -
culege-ți doar miresmate-aduceri-aminte
de flori pieritoare
cu o sută de ani mai 'nainte.
Și-n bucuria inimii tale să simți
bucuria vie care-ntr-o primăvară
cu zori diafani -
a cîntat și vocea ei veselă
și-a rostogolit-o și peste o sută de ani.

[Ivana · Rating 4 out of 5]

U suštini ne volim poeziju, ali mi se Gradinar dopao.

31

Moje srce, ptica divljine, našlo je svoje nebo u
tvojim očima.
One su kolevka jutra, one su carstvo zvezda.
Moje su pesme potonule u dubine njihove.
Pusti me samo da se vinem u to nebo, u njegovo
osamno bespuće.
Pusti me samo da delim njegove oblake, da širim
krila u sjaju njegovoga sunca.

[heidi · Rating 3 out of 5]

This collection of verses reveals some gems here and there, but I'm afraid the beauty of most of the verses has been lost in translation. This won't stop me from reading other works of Tagore though. I'll go through other Tagore titles available on Gutenberg to do the author justice.

[Eddie B. · Rating 4 out of 5]

Who am I to say anything about Tagore? Really liked it. But I couldn't put it together with Gitanjali. The last poems were the best. Especially the last one!