R. Tagore

R. Tagore [1861-1941] is someone that is firmly in the canon. He is an incredible writer in almost every genre, but I like him most in poetry. His work is equal to Shelley. You can read it all here.

Tagore was also a genius in many fields, and as a Bengali [between India and Bangladesh, was the first non-European to win the Nobel Prize in Literature [1913]. He had a life of many achievements, which you can read about here. He famously wrote poetry as a child under a pen name, which was read by members of the literati and thought to be long lost classics from ancient times.

You can't beat that. He was incredible. His work makes you want to read more Indian poetry, both new and old, to make some spicy golden rice and watch bollywood movies--I love them, don't get me started.

Here is a great passage from "The Gardener", all of which is here:
2. [...]

"The early evening star disappears.
 "The glow of a funeral pyre slowly dies by the silent river.
 "Jackals cry in chorus from the courtyard of the deserted house
   in the light of the worn-out moon.
 "If some wanderer, leaving home, come here to watch the night and
   with bowed head listen to the murmur of the darkness, who is
   there to whisper the secrets of life into his ears if I,
   shutting my doors, should try to free myself from mortal bonds?

13. [...]

I did not say a word.  It was the bird that sang unseen from the
   thicket.
 The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon the village road,
   and the bees came humming one by one.
 On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva's temple was
   opened and the worshipper had begun his chants.
 With the vessel on your lap you were milking the cow.
 I stood with my empty can.

 I did not come near you.
 The sky woke with the sound of the gong at the temple.
 The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs of the driven
   cattle.
 With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women came from the
   river.
 Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brimming over the jar.
 The morning wore on and I did not come near you.

Here are some excerpts that I like from his volume "Fruit-Gathering" here:

LXIII

  

NOT for me is the love that knows no restraint, but like the foaming wine
  that having burst its vessel in a moment would run to waste. 


Send me the love which is cool and pure like your rain that blesses the
  thirsty earth and fills the homely earthen jars. 


Send me the love that would soak down into the centre of being, and from
  there would spread like the unseen sap through the branching tree of life,
  giving birth to fruits and flowers. 


Send me the love that keeps the heart still with the fulness of peace.