Poems on the Purpose of Life

Short poems on the purpose of life by Sri Chinmoy



I did not come into the world
To prove anything.
I came into the world
To love everyone
And everything.

Sri Chinmoy

The sole purpose of my life
Is to go back once more
To my peace-home-heart.

Sri Chinmoy

Life is given to each human being
For a very special purpose.
This secret each human being
Must discover for himself.

Sri Chinmoy


Yet in the exact Inconscient’s stark conceit,
In the casual error of the world’s ignorance
A plan, a hidden Intelligence is glimpsed.
There is a purpose in each stumble and fall;
Nature’s most careless lolling is a pose
Preparing some forward step, some deep result.
Ingenious notes plugged into a motived score,
These million discords dot the harmonious theme
Of the evolution’s huge orchestral dance


– Sri Aurobindo, Savitri, p.658


Die now! die now!
In this Love, die;
when you have died in this Love,
you will all receive new life.

Die now, die now,
and do not fear this death,
for you will come forth from this earth
and seize the heavens.

Die now, die now,
and break away from this carnal soul,
for this carnal soul is as a chain
and you are as prisoners.

Take an axe to dig through the prison;
when you have broken the prison
you will all be kings and princes.

Die now, die now before the beauteous King;
when you have died before the King,
you will all be kings and renowned.

– Rumi


Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass (1892)


Resembles Life what once was held of Light,
Too ample in itself for human sight ?
An absolute Self–an element ungrounded–
All, that we see, all colours of all shade
[Image]By encroach of darkness made ?–
Is very life by consciousness unbounded ?
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
A war-embrace of wrestling Life and Death ?

– Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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