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 a hundred years.

Discipline divorced from wisdom is not true discipline, but merely the meaningless following of custom, which is only a disguise for stupidity.

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

If God had so wished, he would have made all Indians speak with one language ... the unity of India has been and shall always be a unity in diversity.

Someone spilled the ink on the canvas. Now boasts: "I painted the night".

Blessed is he whose fame does not outshine his truth.

By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love which is greater than theirs, and thout keepst me free. Lest I forgot them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart, thy love for me still waits for my love.