Stray Birds

By Rabindranath Tagore and Mint Editions

Stray Birds (1916) is a collection of poems by Rabindranath Tagore. Translated into English by Tagore after he received the 1913 Nobel Prize in Literature, Stray Birds is a powerful collection of short poems by a master of Indian literature. “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.” The poems of Stray Birds are a masterclass in clarity and concision. Like birds themselves, they flutter across the sky of the page before passing beyond the limit of sight. In prayer, in celebration, and in evocations of the natural world, Tagore comes as close to the truth as possible, catching a glimpse before it can fly away forever: “Let me live truly, my Lord, so that death to me become true.” In plainspoken language, Tagore gives voice to the soul. This edition of Rabindranath Tagore’s Stray Birds is a classic of Indian literature reimagined for modern readers.

Since our inception in 2020, Mint Editions has kept sustainability and innovation at the forefront of our mission. Each and every Mint Edition title gets a fresh, professionally typeset manuscript and a dazzling new cover, all while maintaining the integrity of the original book.

With thousands of titles in our collection, we aim to spotlight diverse public domain works to help them find modern audiences. Mint Editions celebrates a breadth of literary works, curated from both canonical and overlooked classics from writers around the globe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mint Editions
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781513213897

Rabindranath Tagore

Rabindranath Tagore (1861–1941) was a Nobel Laureate in literature. (1913). He wrote successfully in all literary genres, but was, first and foremost, a poet, publishing more than fifty volumes of poetry. He wrote novels, plays, musical dramas, dance dramas, essays, travel diaries and two autobiographies. He also left numerous drawings and paintings, and songs for which he wrote the music himself. He was the composer of the national anthem of independent India and Bangladesh. He was born in Calcutta, travelled around the world, and was knighted in 1915. He gave up his knighthood after the Jallianwala Bagh massacre in 1919. Among his many works are Manasi (1890), Sonar Tari (1894), Gitanjali (1910), Gitimalya (1914), Balaka (1916), The Gardener (1913), Fruit-Gathering (1916), The Fugitive (1921), Raja (1910), Dakghar (1912), Achalayatan (1912), Muktadhara (1922), Raktakaravi (1926), Gora (1910), Ghare-Baire (1916) and Yogayog (1929).

Book preview

1

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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.

2

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O TROUPE of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words.

3

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THE world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover.

It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal.

4

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IT is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom.

5

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THE mighty desert is burning for the love of a blade of grass who shakes her head and laughs and flies away.

6

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IF you shed tears when you miss the sun, you also miss the stars.

7

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THE sands in your way beg for your song and your movement, dancing water. Will you carry the burden of their lameness?

8

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HER wistful face haunts my dreams like the rain at night.

9

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ONCE we dreamt that we were strangers.

We wake up to find that we were dear to each other.

10

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SORROW is hushed into peace in my heart like the evening among the silent trees.

11

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SOME unseen fingers, like idle breeze, are playing upon my heart the music of the ripples.

12

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WHAT language is thine, O sea?

The language of eternal question.

"What language is thy answer, O sky?

The language of eternal silence.

13

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LISTEN, my heart, to the whispers of the world with which it makes love to you.

14

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THE mystery of creation is like the darkness of night—it is great. Delusions of knowledge are like the fog of the morning.

15

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DO not seat your love upon a precipice because it is high.

16

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I SIT at my window this morning where the world like a passer-by stops for a moment, nods to me and goes.

17

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THESE little thoughts are the rustle of