Of all shy visitants, I loveThat darling butterfly,Whose wings are to the cornfield’s waveA hovering reply.Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripeHe suns with his gay youth,And feeds me with the gold of light,The thrice-tried gleam of truth.When, glooming back upon myself,The garden path I pace,He comes and makes my gladdened eyesThe dial to his grace.Unfailing omen, punctual sign!No sooner am I out,He hovers by on golden wingsTo chase the grey of doubt.All melancholy thoughts to thresh,Winnow the blissful grainOf immortality, and siftFrom mortal fear and pain.Day after day the marvel grows;Ever his gladsome mornShines down the blackness of my griefWith glancing wings of scorn.Now from the creeper’s bowery height,Now o’er the garden wall;From far-off places, or where firstThe wonder did befall.In that low bed of coxcomb flowersBeneath her window-sill,Her chamber-window, where he warmsHomeward my spirit still;Or plumb-down from the soaring roofHe to my awful eyeHis radiant message angels meFrom azure depths of sky.I cannot with ungrateful heartFeel God’s fair world a blank.Straight for the sunny thought of herHis yellow wings I thank.I cannot still, her sight to want,Weep like a thwarted boy,Cry outright, but with darting goldHe chides me back to joy.The stupor of the miracleEver renewed, the fear,I lose in charmed tranquillity,For she, my saint, is here.Who works it? No dead relic sweetOf her, my living saint,Perfect beyond the skill of thoughtOf fancy’s power to paint.Whole from her suffering martyrdomShe is arisen. No tombCould hold her, no far blissful heavenAllure. Her heaven is home.No place more holy than these walks,This garden, where the flowersSwing censers breathing up to God,This house a Book of Hours.No room but memory’s sacred hand,Gilded, illuminate,Paints how she suffered, loved and died—The legend of her fate.In heaven she is; beatitudeTo her; her loved ones still,So loving she, here, here, enskyedTo guard. It is God’s will.Here in the old sweet home where, stillA guardian spirit, sheHeals, comforts, counsels, and performsHer angel ministry.Manmohan Ghose.
Of all shy visitants, I loveThat darling butterfly,Whose wings are to the cornfield’s waveA hovering reply.Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripeHe suns with his gay youth,And feeds me with the gold of light,The thrice-tried gleam of truth.When, glooming back upon myself,The garden path I pace,He comes and makes my gladdened eyesThe dial to his grace.Unfailing omen, punctual sign!No sooner am I out,He hovers by on golden wingsTo chase the grey of doubt.All melancholy thoughts to thresh,Winnow the blissful grainOf immortality, and siftFrom mortal fear and pain.Day after day the marvel grows;Ever his gladsome mornShines down the blackness of my griefWith glancing wings of scorn.Now from the creeper’s bowery height,Now o’er the garden wall;From far-off places, or where firstThe wonder did befall.In that low bed of coxcomb flowersBeneath her window-sill,Her chamber-window, where he warmsHomeward my spirit still;Or plumb-down from the soaring roofHe to my awful eyeHis radiant message angels meFrom azure depths of sky.I cannot with ungrateful heartFeel God’s fair world a blank.Straight for the sunny thought of herHis yellow wings I thank.I cannot still, her sight to want,Weep like a thwarted boy,Cry outright, but with darting goldHe chides me back to joy.The stupor of the miracleEver renewed, the fear,I lose in charmed tranquillity,For she, my saint, is here.Who works it? No dead relic sweetOf her, my living saint,Perfect beyond the skill of thoughtOf fancy’s power to paint.Whole from her suffering martyrdomShe is arisen. No tombCould hold her, no far blissful heavenAllure. Her heaven is home.No place more holy than these walks,This garden, where the flowersSwing censers breathing up to God,This house a Book of Hours.No room but memory’s sacred hand,Gilded, illuminate,Paints how she suffered, loved and died—The legend of her fate.In heaven she is; beatitudeTo her; her loved ones still,So loving she, here, here, enskyedTo guard. It is God’s will.Here in the old sweet home where, stillA guardian spirit, sheHeals, comforts, counsels, and performsHer angel ministry.Manmohan Ghose.
Of all shy visitants, I loveThat darling butterfly,Whose wings are to the cornfield’s waveA hovering reply.
Yellow as dancing wheat-ears ripeHe suns with his gay youth,And feeds me with the gold of light,The thrice-tried gleam of truth.
When, glooming back upon myself,The garden path I pace,He comes and makes my gladdened eyesThe dial to his grace.
Unfailing omen, punctual sign!No sooner am I out,He hovers by on golden wingsTo chase the grey of doubt.
All melancholy thoughts to thresh,Winnow the blissful grainOf immortality, and siftFrom mortal fear and pain.
Day after day the marvel grows;Ever his gladsome mornShines down the blackness of my griefWith glancing wings of scorn.
Now from the creeper’s bowery height,Now o’er the garden wall;From far-off places, or where firstThe wonder did befall.
In that low bed of coxcomb flowersBeneath her window-sill,Her chamber-window, where he warmsHomeward my spirit still;
Or plumb-down from the soaring roofHe to my awful eyeHis radiant message angels meFrom azure depths of sky.
I cannot with ungrateful heartFeel God’s fair world a blank.Straight for the sunny thought of herHis yellow wings I thank.
I cannot still, her sight to want,Weep like a thwarted boy,Cry outright, but with darting goldHe chides me back to joy.
The stupor of the miracleEver renewed, the fear,I lose in charmed tranquillity,For she, my saint, is here.
Who works it? No dead relic sweetOf her, my living saint,Perfect beyond the skill of thoughtOf fancy’s power to paint.
Whole from her suffering martyrdomShe is arisen. No tombCould hold her, no far blissful heavenAllure. Her heaven is home.
No place more holy than these walks,This garden, where the flowersSwing censers breathing up to God,This house a Book of Hours.
No room but memory’s sacred hand,Gilded, illuminate,Paints how she suffered, loved and died—The legend of her fate.
In heaven she is; beatitudeTo her; her loved ones still,So loving she, here, here, enskyedTo guard. It is God’s will.
Here in the old sweet home where, stillA guardian spirit, sheHeals, comforts, counsels, and performsHer angel ministry.
Manmohan Ghose.
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,Fairest of maidens.Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaningAt the open window, thy hand deep-buriedIn dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazestO’er the wide ocean.Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance,Is my own country, and other soil bore meThan thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’sNourished my spirit.Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:What can green England show to match those regionsSave thyself only, what hath she that meritsProuder remembrance?Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean,Nothing can match their beauty! If MyvanwyHad but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom,She too would say so.She too would say so, and back in thought returning,How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness,How would she marvel, the lovely maiden,Breathless with gazing!There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountainsRise with their ages of snows to heaven,Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they,Fearfully lovely:There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature,The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there,All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, deliciousFruits of the tropics;And the vast elephant that dreams for ages,Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers:Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour,Pace to behold her?Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle,Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture!How shall I picture to her all the strangeness,All the enchantment,In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faintsAnd my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy,Deep in the east where now but evening gathers,Lost is my country.Long ago hither in passionate boyhood,Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wanderedOver the bitter foam: so far Fate led meOnly to love thee.Lost is that country, and all but forgotten’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me,All her meridian suns and ardent summersBurn in my bosom.Manmohan Ghose.
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,Fairest of maidens.Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaningAt the open window, thy hand deep-buriedIn dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazestO’er the wide ocean.Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance,Is my own country, and other soil bore meThan thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’sNourished my spirit.Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:What can green England show to match those regionsSave thyself only, what hath she that meritsProuder remembrance?Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean,Nothing can match their beauty! If MyvanwyHad but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom,She too would say so.She too would say so, and back in thought returning,How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness,How would she marvel, the lovely maiden,Breathless with gazing!There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountainsRise with their ages of snows to heaven,Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they,Fearfully lovely:There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature,The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there,All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, deliciousFruits of the tropics;And the vast elephant that dreams for ages,Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers:Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour,Pace to behold her?Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle,Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture!How shall I picture to her all the strangeness,All the enchantment,In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faintsAnd my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy,Deep in the east where now but evening gathers,Lost is my country.Long ago hither in passionate boyhood,Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wanderedOver the bitter foam: so far Fate led meOnly to love thee.Lost is that country, and all but forgotten’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me,All her meridian suns and ardent summersBurn in my bosom.Manmohan Ghose.
Oft hast thou heard it, that old true saying,’Tis like and unlike makes the happiest music.Then, gravely smiling, scorn me not, Myvanwy,Fairest of maidens.
Thou who in sunlight sittest, pensive leaningAt the open window, thy hand deep-buriedIn dark sweet clusters of thy hair, and gazestO’er the wide ocean.
Yes, o’er the ocean far, far in the distance,Is my own country, and other soil bore meThan thy dear birthplace, other sun than England’sNourished my spirit.
Yet for this slight not my heart as alien:What can green England show to match those regionsSave thyself only, what hath she that meritsProuder remembrance?
Nothing! nor any shore that hears the Ocean,Nothing can match their beauty! If MyvanwyHad but an exile’s sad heart in her bosom,She too would say so.
She too would say so, and back in thought returning,How would her sweet eyes fill with tears of gladness,How would she marvel, the lovely maiden,Breathless with gazing!
There, stretching lonely, do the giant mountainsRise with their ages of snows to heaven,Snows, the heart shudders, so far away seem they,Fearfully lovely:
There is the tall palm, like her own dear stature,The land’s green lady, and riotously hang there,All for Myvanwy’s lips, the strange, deliciousFruits of the tropics;And the vast elephant that dreams for ages,Lost among dim leaves and things of old, remembers:Would he not, rousing at her name’s sweet rumour,Pace to behold her?
Oh me! what glories would her eyes enkindle,Eyes with their quick imaginative rapture!How shall I picture to her all the strangeness,All the enchantment,
In that enchanted land of noon? My heart faintsAnd my tongue falters: for long ago, Myvanwy,Deep in the east where now but evening gathers,Lost is my country.
Long ago hither in passionate boyhood,Lightly an exile, lightly leagues I wanderedOver the bitter foam: so far Fate led meOnly to love thee.
Lost is that country, and all but forgotten’Mid these chill breezes, yet still, oh, believe me,All her meridian suns and ardent summersBurn in my bosom.
Manmohan Ghose.
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate,Ordained us happy or unfortunate,And wrote upon our brow and on our handsThe signs that tell to him who understandsOur Destiny, decreed for good or ill.So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will,Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.One child is cherished; one to hands unkindIs given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn;One longs to die, but Death when called uponTurns from the supplicating voice his ear;One starves in poverty; one is AmirAnd drives his elephant in lordly state;One lives in love; one girdled round with hateDwells ever in a bitter world of strife;One in the moment of this earthly lifeIs ruler, sitting on a regal seat;One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.And Allah changes all as He desires,He is an artist whom His art inspires:This world the picture He is painting still.But with his share of fate He gave man willTo fashion circumstance by its control,To make a path of healing for his soul,To act, to think, to feel aright untilHe knows his will as one with Allah’s will.Inayat Khan.
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate,Ordained us happy or unfortunate,And wrote upon our brow and on our handsThe signs that tell to him who understandsOur Destiny, decreed for good or ill.So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will,Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.One child is cherished; one to hands unkindIs given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn;One longs to die, but Death when called uponTurns from the supplicating voice his ear;One starves in poverty; one is AmirAnd drives his elephant in lordly state;One lives in love; one girdled round with hateDwells ever in a bitter world of strife;One in the moment of this earthly lifeIs ruler, sitting on a regal seat;One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.And Allah changes all as He desires,He is an artist whom His art inspires:This world the picture He is painting still.But with his share of fate He gave man willTo fashion circumstance by its control,To make a path of healing for his soul,To act, to think, to feel aright untilHe knows his will as one with Allah’s will.Inayat Khan.
Before our births, Kussam, who makes our fate,Ordained us happy or unfortunate,And wrote upon our brow and on our handsThe signs that tell to him who understandsOur Destiny, decreed for good or ill.So pass the Wise, bending to Allah’s will,Their lives into His mighty hands resigned.
One child is cherished; one to hands unkindIs given; one dies in life’s first shining dawn;One longs to die, but Death when called uponTurns from the supplicating voice his ear;One starves in poverty; one is AmirAnd drives his elephant in lordly state;One lives in love; one girdled round with hateDwells ever in a bitter world of strife;One in the moment of this earthly lifeIs ruler, sitting on a regal seat;One crawls a slave, obedient at his feet.
And Allah changes all as He desires,He is an artist whom His art inspires:This world the picture He is painting still.But with his share of fate He gave man willTo fashion circumstance by its control,To make a path of healing for his soul,To act, to think, to feel aright untilHe knows his will as one with Allah’s will.
Inayat Khan.
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s CourtWon great renown; through the Badshahi FortHis voice rang like the sound of silver bellsAnd Akbar ravished heard. The story tellsHow the King praised him, gave him many a gem,Called him chief jewel in his diadem.One day the singer sang the Song of Fire,The DeepakRâg, and burning like a pyreHis body burst into consuming flame.To cure his burning heart a maiden cameAnd sang Malhar, the song of water cold,Till health returned, and comfort as of old.“Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,”Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine,Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowedAnd said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd,Scorning its wealth, remote and far-awayHe dwells within a cave of Himalay.”“Could I but see him once,” desired the King,“Sit at his feet awhile, and listeningHear his celestial song, I would denyMy state and walk in robes of poverty.”Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor,Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poorTo come; for he, lifted above the thingsOf earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.”Long was the road, and Akbar as a slaveFollowed Tansen who rode towards the caveHigh in the mountains. At the singer’s feetThey knelt and prayed with supplication sweet:“Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long,O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!”Then Ostad, won by their humility,Sang songs of peace and high felicity;The MalkousRagaall ecstatic rangTill birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang,Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soulHe felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll,But, as he turned to speak his words of praise,Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze.“Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holdsThe soul enchanted, and the heart enfoldsIn high delight”; and, when he knew the name,“Tell me,” again he said, “could you the sameTheme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?”“Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”Inayat Khan.
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s CourtWon great renown; through the Badshahi FortHis voice rang like the sound of silver bellsAnd Akbar ravished heard. The story tellsHow the King praised him, gave him many a gem,Called him chief jewel in his diadem.One day the singer sang the Song of Fire,The DeepakRâg, and burning like a pyreHis body burst into consuming flame.To cure his burning heart a maiden cameAnd sang Malhar, the song of water cold,Till health returned, and comfort as of old.“Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,”Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine,Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowedAnd said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd,Scorning its wealth, remote and far-awayHe dwells within a cave of Himalay.”“Could I but see him once,” desired the King,“Sit at his feet awhile, and listeningHear his celestial song, I would denyMy state and walk in robes of poverty.”Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor,Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poorTo come; for he, lifted above the thingsOf earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.”Long was the road, and Akbar as a slaveFollowed Tansen who rode towards the caveHigh in the mountains. At the singer’s feetThey knelt and prayed with supplication sweet:“Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long,O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!”Then Ostad, won by their humility,Sang songs of peace and high felicity;The MalkousRagaall ecstatic rangTill birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang,Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soulHe felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll,But, as he turned to speak his words of praise,Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze.“Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holdsThe soul enchanted, and the heart enfoldsIn high delight”; and, when he knew the name,“Tell me,” again he said, “could you the sameTheme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?”“Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”Inayat Khan.
Tansen, the singer, in great Akbar’s CourtWon great renown; through the Badshahi FortHis voice rang like the sound of silver bellsAnd Akbar ravished heard. The story tellsHow the King praised him, gave him many a gem,Called him chief jewel in his diadem.One day the singer sang the Song of Fire,The DeepakRâg, and burning like a pyreHis body burst into consuming flame.To cure his burning heart a maiden cameAnd sang Malhar, the song of water cold,Till health returned, and comfort as of old.“Mighty thy Teacher must be and divine,”Great Akbar said; “magic indeed is thine,Learnt at his feet.” Then happy Tansen bowedAnd said, “Beyond the world’s ignoble crowd,Scorning its wealth, remote and far-awayHe dwells within a cave of Himalay.”“Could I but see him once,” desired the King,“Sit at his feet awhile, and listeningHear his celestial song, I would denyMy state and walk in robes of poverty.”Then said Tansen, “As you desire, Huzoor,Indeed ’twere better as a slave and poorTo come; for he, lifted above the thingsOf earth, disdains to sing to earthly kings.”Long was the road, and Akbar as a slaveFollowed Tansen who rode towards the caveHigh in the mountains. At the singer’s feetThey knelt and prayed with supplication sweet:“Towards thy shrine, lo, we have journeyed long,O Holy Master, bless us with thy song!”Then Ostad, won by their humility,Sang songs of peace and high felicity;The MalkousRagaall ecstatic rangTill birds and beasts, enchanted as he sang,Gathered to hear. O’er Akbar’s dreaming soulHe felt the waves of heavenly rapture roll,But, as he turned to speak his words of praise,Ostad had vanished from his wondering gaze.“Tell me, Tansen, what theme this is that holdsThe soul enchanted, and the heart enfoldsIn high delight”; and, when he knew the name,“Tell me,” again he said, “could you the sameTheme sing to lure my heart to paths untrod?”“Ah no, to thee I sing; he sings to God.”
Inayat Khan.
The high ambition of the drop of rainIs to be merged in the unfettered sea;My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,Changing, became itself the remedy.Behold how great is my humility!Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;Now I no longer feel thy tyranny,I hunger for the pain that then I bore.Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflowIf not to breathe with benediction sweetAcross her path? Why did the soft wind blowIf not to kiss the ground before her feet?Ghalib.
The high ambition of the drop of rainIs to be merged in the unfettered sea;My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,Changing, became itself the remedy.Behold how great is my humility!Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;Now I no longer feel thy tyranny,I hunger for the pain that then I bore.Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflowIf not to breathe with benediction sweetAcross her path? Why did the soft wind blowIf not to kiss the ground before her feet?Ghalib.
The high ambition of the drop of rainIs to be merged in the unfettered sea;My sorrow when it passed all bounds of pain,Changing, became itself the remedy.
Behold how great is my humility!Under your cruel yoke I suffered sore;Now I no longer feel thy tyranny,I hunger for the pain that then I bore.
Why did the fragrance of the flowers outflowIf not to breathe with benediction sweetAcross her path? Why did the soft wind blowIf not to kiss the ground before her feet?
Ghalib.
How difficult is the thorny way of strifeThat man hath stumbled in since time began!And in the tangled business of this lifeHow difficult to play the part of man!When she decrees there should exist no moreMy humble cottage, through its broken walls,And cruelly drifting in the open door,The frozen rain of desolation falls.O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burnAnd bear my soul further and further yetTo the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turnTo bitter disappointment and regret?Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s faceThat every eye becomes her worshipper,And every mirror, looking on her grace,Desires to be the frame enclosing her.Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,In this grim place of slaughter strange indeedYour joy to see unveiled her haughty glanceThat flashes like the scimitar of Ede.When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas!How soon repentance followed on my death,How quick her unavailing sorrow was!Ghalib.
How difficult is the thorny way of strifeThat man hath stumbled in since time began!And in the tangled business of this lifeHow difficult to play the part of man!When she decrees there should exist no moreMy humble cottage, through its broken walls,And cruelly drifting in the open door,The frozen rain of desolation falls.O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burnAnd bear my soul further and further yetTo the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turnTo bitter disappointment and regret?Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s faceThat every eye becomes her worshipper,And every mirror, looking on her grace,Desires to be the frame enclosing her.Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,In this grim place of slaughter strange indeedYour joy to see unveiled her haughty glanceThat flashes like the scimitar of Ede.When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas!How soon repentance followed on my death,How quick her unavailing sorrow was!Ghalib.
How difficult is the thorny way of strifeThat man hath stumbled in since time began!And in the tangled business of this lifeHow difficult to play the part of man!
When she decrees there should exist no moreMy humble cottage, through its broken walls,And cruelly drifting in the open door,The frozen rain of desolation falls.
O mad Desire, why dost thou flame and burnAnd bear my soul further and further yetTo the Belovéd? Then, why dost thou turnTo bitter disappointment and regret?
Such light there gleams from the Belovéd’s faceThat every eye becomes her worshipper,And every mirror, looking on her grace,Desires to be the frame enclosing her.
Unhappy lovers, slaves of cruel chance,In this grim place of slaughter strange indeedYour joy to see unveiled her haughty glanceThat flashes like the scimitar of Ede.
When I had hardly drawn my latest breath,Pardon she asked for killing me. Alas!How soon repentance followed on my death,How quick her unavailing sorrow was!
Ghalib.
Thy beauty flashes like a swordSerene and keen and merciless;But great as is thy cruelty,Even greater is thy loveliness.It is the gift of God to thee,This beauty rare and exquisite;Why dost thou hide it thus from me?I shall not steal nor sully it.And as thy beauty shines, in HeavenThere climbs upon its path of fireThe star that lights my rival’s way,And with it mounts his heart’s desire.Even in thy house is jealousy,Thy youth demands the lover’s praiseOver thy beauty, which itselfIs jealous of thy gracious ways.I died with joy when winninglyI heard the Well-Beloved call—Zahir, where is my beauty gone?Thou must have robbed me after all.Zahir.
Thy beauty flashes like a swordSerene and keen and merciless;But great as is thy cruelty,Even greater is thy loveliness.It is the gift of God to thee,This beauty rare and exquisite;Why dost thou hide it thus from me?I shall not steal nor sully it.And as thy beauty shines, in HeavenThere climbs upon its path of fireThe star that lights my rival’s way,And with it mounts his heart’s desire.Even in thy house is jealousy,Thy youth demands the lover’s praiseOver thy beauty, which itselfIs jealous of thy gracious ways.I died with joy when winninglyI heard the Well-Beloved call—Zahir, where is my beauty gone?Thou must have robbed me after all.Zahir.
Thy beauty flashes like a swordSerene and keen and merciless;But great as is thy cruelty,Even greater is thy loveliness.
It is the gift of God to thee,This beauty rare and exquisite;Why dost thou hide it thus from me?I shall not steal nor sully it.
And as thy beauty shines, in HeavenThere climbs upon its path of fireThe star that lights my rival’s way,And with it mounts his heart’s desire.
Even in thy house is jealousy,Thy youth demands the lover’s praiseOver thy beauty, which itselfIs jealous of thy gracious ways.
I died with joy when winninglyI heard the Well-Beloved call—Zahir, where is my beauty gone?Thou must have robbed me after all.
Zahir.
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death,Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep;It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath,A turning on the other side to sleep.Through all the close entanglements of earthMy spirit shaking off its bonds shall fareAnd pass, and rise in new unfettered birth,Escaping from this labyrinth of care.Within the mortal caravanseraiNo rest and no abiding place I know;I linger here for but a fleeting day,And at the morrow’s summoning I go.What are these bonds that try to shackle me?Through all their intricate chains my way I find;I travel like a wandering melodyThat floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.From an unsympathetic world I fleeTo you, your love and fellowship I crave,O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi,I lay my song as tribute on your grave.Amir.
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death,Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep;It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath,A turning on the other side to sleep.Through all the close entanglements of earthMy spirit shaking off its bonds shall fareAnd pass, and rise in new unfettered birth,Escaping from this labyrinth of care.Within the mortal caravanseraiNo rest and no abiding place I know;I linger here for but a fleeting day,And at the morrow’s summoning I go.What are these bonds that try to shackle me?Through all their intricate chains my way I find;I travel like a wandering melodyThat floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.From an unsympathetic world I fleeTo you, your love and fellowship I crave,O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi,I lay my song as tribute on your grave.Amir.
I shall not try to flee the sword of Death,Nor, fearing it, a watchful vigil keep;It will be nothing but a sigh, a breath,A turning on the other side to sleep.
Through all the close entanglements of earthMy spirit shaking off its bonds shall fareAnd pass, and rise in new unfettered birth,Escaping from this labyrinth of care.
Within the mortal caravanseraiNo rest and no abiding place I know;I linger here for but a fleeting day,And at the morrow’s summoning I go.
What are these bonds that try to shackle me?Through all their intricate chains my way I find;I travel like a wandering melodyThat floats untamed, untaken, on the wind.
From an unsympathetic world I fleeTo you, your love and fellowship I crave,O Singers dead, Sauda and Mushafi,I lay my song as tribute on your grave.
Amir.
The vaulted roof opens. The guests feel that a Being is entering from above. They see nothing, but all hear a voice in the air.
High above the clouds in the Home of Light Idwell.My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding.For their welfare do I visit men in all corners ofthe earth.At the command of the Mother I move, up anddown, East and West, showering the rays ofFreedom upon all;The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve;The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part;The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but asingle petal;The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but athirsty bee.Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of theHeavens. They know naught who speakthus.I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and thesight in Man’s eyes which sees them both;I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters;I dwell in peace, encompassing all these livingorbs of light;I know the secret of the Primal Song; the godsare all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard;I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infiniteHouse of Sky;From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thoughtto each man’s mind, to lead him across theshoreless Sea of Mirage;Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of EternalPower;I am in all hearts, save only those where Love isnot.
High above the clouds in the Home of Light Idwell.My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding.For their welfare do I visit men in all corners ofthe earth.At the command of the Mother I move, up anddown, East and West, showering the rays ofFreedom upon all;The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve;The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part;The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but asingle petal;The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but athirsty bee.Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of theHeavens. They know naught who speakthus.I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and thesight in Man’s eyes which sees them both;I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters;I dwell in peace, encompassing all these livingorbs of light;I know the secret of the Primal Song; the godsare all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard;I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infiniteHouse of Sky;From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thoughtto each man’s mind, to lead him across theshoreless Sea of Mirage;Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of EternalPower;I am in all hearts, save only those where Love isnot.
High above the clouds in the Home of Light Idwell.My days are passed in the peace of Great Understanding.For their welfare do I visit men in all corners ofthe earth.At the command of the Mother I move, up anddown, East and West, showering the rays ofFreedom upon all;The Mother is the Circle, I am but a curve;The Mother is the Whole, I am but a part;The Mother is the Opening Lotus, I am but asingle petal;The Mother is the Ocean of Honey, I am but athirsty bee.Men call me Lord of the Sky and Father of theHeavens. They know naught who speakthus.I am the Space and its all-infilling Light and thesight in Man’s eyes which sees them both;I am the Sense whereby Man knows the Quarters;I dwell in peace, encompassing all these livingorbs of light;I know the secret of the Primal Song; the godsare all the offspring of a Song, by them unheard;I keep the record of men’s thoughts in my infiniteHouse of Sky;From æon to æon I hold up the Mirror of Thoughtto each man’s mind, to lead him across theshoreless Sea of Mirage;Yet I do but the bidding of the Mother of EternalPower;I am in all hearts, save only those where Love isnot.
The Being rises up through the open roof, and the guests hear his voice dying away in the far-off sky. The vault of the Hall closes. The southern door opens. A Being enters. They hear his voice.
Voice in the Air:
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of theAir;I reign over all who breathe;I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean;My song is heard in the mountain forest, butmen hear not my music in the clouds;My home is near to the Lord of the Heart;I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate;I walk with Man from the door of Birth to thedoor of Death; waking and sleeping, by dayand by night, I watch over him;I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstandmy power;I am the Friend of the Flowers—from one toanother I bear sweet messages of love;This all I do at the command of the Mother ofLife.There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, fillingwith sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens.Yea, like a spreading mountain pine Shestands in the soft autumn twilight, and itpleases Her that I play upon my reed forthe comfort of all creatures that breathe.
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of theAir;I reign over all who breathe;I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean;My song is heard in the mountain forest, butmen hear not my music in the clouds;My home is near to the Lord of the Heart;I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate;I walk with Man from the door of Birth to thedoor of Death; waking and sleeping, by dayand by night, I watch over him;I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstandmy power;I am the Friend of the Flowers—from one toanother I bear sweet messages of love;This all I do at the command of the Mother ofLife.There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, fillingwith sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens.Yea, like a spreading mountain pine Shestands in the soft autumn twilight, and itpleases Her that I play upon my reed forthe comfort of all creatures that breathe.
By the will of the Mother I am the Lord of theAir;I reign over all who breathe;I carry sweet fragrance from ocean to ocean;My song is heard in the mountain forest, butmen hear not my music in the clouds;My home is near to the Lord of the Heart;I am the Lord of Life’s Brother and Playmate;I walk with Man from the door of Birth to thedoor of Death; waking and sleeping, by dayand by night, I watch over him;I sweep from Pole to Pole and none can withstandmy power;I am the Friend of the Flowers—from one toanother I bear sweet messages of love;This all I do at the command of the Mother ofLife.There stands the Mother tenderly smiling, fillingwith sweetness the Quarters of the Heavens.Yea, like a spreading mountain pine Shestands in the soft autumn twilight, and itpleases Her that I play upon my reed forthe comfort of all creatures that breathe.
The light dies out, leaving the Hall in darkness. After a while a kind of murky earth-light diffuses itself over the lower part of the Hall. The guests hear the sound of a mighty crying, like the wailing of a sacked city in the far distance. A voice, broken by sighs and groans, speaks from below.
Voice:
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods havenot named me. I call myself “Humanity”;I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep throughthe air and the ether.I am man and woman and the intermediate one;I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.I wander in the woods of dark continents as thesavage cannibal; I watch by the bedsideof the sick in the home of mercy.I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassionin the heart of the mother.I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself tosave others.I change—every moment, every season, everyæon;I fill the pages of my history with romanceswritten in blood;Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;I wax strong and wage war to please Death;I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flamingfurnace of hell—and this I do to please mychildren.I enter the portals of Life with strong crying—andwith a sigh I bid farewell to Life.I am prophet; I am idiot;I am king and shepherd and fisherman.I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherdsand fishermen and turn them into dust;And with their dust do I besmear myself andmadly dance over green meadows.I am—what ye fear to think of me; I will be—whatye love to dream of me.But I will baffle all your fond expectations andall your clever calculations;In a moment of infinite time I will take the wholeworld by the hand and lift it up to the heavenof my heart.I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,but one sure instinct I possess—I stand erectthe moment I fall, and by the aid of the veryobstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.I sorrow not over my shortcomings and mysufferings;I hope—yet know that my hopes are too wild tobe realised.In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain Ihave made my home;I breathe the atmosphere of pain—I drink fromthe well of pain—I eat the fruits of the treeof pain—my sleep is troubled by the dreamof pain.I love not Pain—Pain loves me;The whole history of my existence is a constantfleeing from this cruel lover of mine;I have prayed to God to be delivered from him—hasHe heard my prayer?I have worshipped a million lesser divinities—nature-gods,man-gods, god-gods—throughoutthe ages, hoping to be relieved of pain—havethey saved me?I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints—havethey healed me?I have listened to philosophers, scientists,magicians—have they protected me?Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimedthe gospel of peace and security—havethey not themselves plunged thepoisoned dagger into my heart?I am old as Eternity—yet I feel not the burdenof eternal years;I am young as the babe of to-day—yet I am wiseas all the hoary Bible-makers of all the racesof the earth.I am one—I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flowsever with passionate impetuosity towardsthe distant future above the heads ofnations.To me the least is not less than the greatest; inall I am their sensitiveness to pain—the painof a perpetual new birth of cosmos or ofchaos.I am large, and my largeness moves me to facegreat pain for the avoiding of great pain;I am strong, and my strength lies in discoveringthe source of consolation even in the momentof suffering from suffering itself;I am inured to pain—so that I delight in excitementthat brings pain and inflicts pain.Who brought this pain upon me? Had it beenGod-given, God would one day have takenit away; has He taken it away?Had it been the gift of Nature, I would haverevenged myself upon her; but I feel noenmity to Nature—I desire that she beendless, infinite, that I may ever conquerher;I desire to be charmed by her—yet to be hermaster; I wonder, shall I ever wish to endthis play?Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seekthe aid of floods and earthquakes, war andpestilence and famine, to bring destructionon myself; but ever by a mysterious magicI rise from my own ashes and live again;and after my resurrection, sitting in thedawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psychecomes and whispers to my heart: “Notthou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thineown pain!”And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,how can I desire to live again? How can Iinflict pain upon myself? How can I constructmachinery for my own torture?I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;have I perhaps sought to grow at the costof happiness and peace?Bright Powers in the heavens are watching overmy mysterious destiny. Have they laudedme as good and true and beautiful? Havethey condemned me as bad and false andugly? Who will say whether I am developingaright? Who will say whether thedaily use to which I am constrained to putmy life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?I am left alone with my unforeseeing understandingand my ever forward-springinguntamable energy.My knowledge embraces not the whole reality.Perchance my sensitiveness to pain hassprung from my limited uncomprehendingunderstanding. True, in my own eyes Igrow from ugliness to beauty, from ignoranceto knowledge, from slavery to freedom, fromsin to holiness. I make progress in cultureand civilisation—but I rise to the zenithonly to descend to the nadir.Henceforth I will seek new and inward space formy progress. In the coming age I willseek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find aninner path to the Divinity of my Heart.But I will not destroy the bridges which Ihave built during the past ages, linkingthis earth with the distant divinity of sunsand moons and stars.I will be free, glorious, and immortal.The Voice ceases.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods havenot named me. I call myself “Humanity”;I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep throughthe air and the ether.I am man and woman and the intermediate one;I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.I wander in the woods of dark continents as thesavage cannibal; I watch by the bedsideof the sick in the home of mercy.I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassionin the heart of the mother.I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself tosave others.I change—every moment, every season, everyæon;I fill the pages of my history with romanceswritten in blood;Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;I wax strong and wage war to please Death;I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flamingfurnace of hell—and this I do to please mychildren.I enter the portals of Life with strong crying—andwith a sigh I bid farewell to Life.I am prophet; I am idiot;I am king and shepherd and fisherman.I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherdsand fishermen and turn them into dust;And with their dust do I besmear myself andmadly dance over green meadows.I am—what ye fear to think of me; I will be—whatye love to dream of me.But I will baffle all your fond expectations andall your clever calculations;In a moment of infinite time I will take the wholeworld by the hand and lift it up to the heavenof my heart.I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,but one sure instinct I possess—I stand erectthe moment I fall, and by the aid of the veryobstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.I sorrow not over my shortcomings and mysufferings;I hope—yet know that my hopes are too wild tobe realised.In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain Ihave made my home;I breathe the atmosphere of pain—I drink fromthe well of pain—I eat the fruits of the treeof pain—my sleep is troubled by the dreamof pain.I love not Pain—Pain loves me;The whole history of my existence is a constantfleeing from this cruel lover of mine;I have prayed to God to be delivered from him—hasHe heard my prayer?I have worshipped a million lesser divinities—nature-gods,man-gods, god-gods—throughoutthe ages, hoping to be relieved of pain—havethey saved me?I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints—havethey healed me?I have listened to philosophers, scientists,magicians—have they protected me?Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimedthe gospel of peace and security—havethey not themselves plunged thepoisoned dagger into my heart?I am old as Eternity—yet I feel not the burdenof eternal years;I am young as the babe of to-day—yet I am wiseas all the hoary Bible-makers of all the racesof the earth.I am one—I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flowsever with passionate impetuosity towardsthe distant future above the heads ofnations.To me the least is not less than the greatest; inall I am their sensitiveness to pain—the painof a perpetual new birth of cosmos or ofchaos.I am large, and my largeness moves me to facegreat pain for the avoiding of great pain;I am strong, and my strength lies in discoveringthe source of consolation even in the momentof suffering from suffering itself;I am inured to pain—so that I delight in excitementthat brings pain and inflicts pain.Who brought this pain upon me? Had it beenGod-given, God would one day have takenit away; has He taken it away?Had it been the gift of Nature, I would haverevenged myself upon her; but I feel noenmity to Nature—I desire that she beendless, infinite, that I may ever conquerher;I desire to be charmed by her—yet to be hermaster; I wonder, shall I ever wish to endthis play?Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seekthe aid of floods and earthquakes, war andpestilence and famine, to bring destructionon myself; but ever by a mysterious magicI rise from my own ashes and live again;and after my resurrection, sitting in thedawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psychecomes and whispers to my heart: “Notthou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thineown pain!”And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,how can I desire to live again? How can Iinflict pain upon myself? How can I constructmachinery for my own torture?I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;have I perhaps sought to grow at the costof happiness and peace?Bright Powers in the heavens are watching overmy mysterious destiny. Have they laudedme as good and true and beautiful? Havethey condemned me as bad and false andugly? Who will say whether I am developingaright? Who will say whether thedaily use to which I am constrained to putmy life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?I am left alone with my unforeseeing understandingand my ever forward-springinguntamable energy.My knowledge embraces not the whole reality.Perchance my sensitiveness to pain hassprung from my limited uncomprehendingunderstanding. True, in my own eyes Igrow from ugliness to beauty, from ignoranceto knowledge, from slavery to freedom, fromsin to holiness. I make progress in cultureand civilisation—but I rise to the zenithonly to descend to the nadir.Henceforth I will seek new and inward space formy progress. In the coming age I willseek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find aninner path to the Divinity of my Heart.But I will not destroy the bridges which Ihave built during the past ages, linkingthis earth with the distant divinity of sunsand moons and stars.I will be free, glorious, and immortal.The Voice ceases.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
I come. Ye ask, “Who art thou?” Gods havenot named me. I call myself “Humanity”;I dwell on land and in the seas; I sweep throughthe air and the ether.I am man and woman and the intermediate one;I am the ape and the tiger and the lamb.I wander in the woods of dark continents as thesavage cannibal; I watch by the bedsideof the sick in the home of mercy.I am ferocity in the beast of prey; I am compassionin the heart of the mother.I devour my own offspring; I sacrifice myself tosave others.I change—every moment, every season, everyæon;I fill the pages of my history with romanceswritten in blood;Out of my dreams of heaven I create this earth;I wax strong and wage war to please Death;I laugh at Death and hurl him into the flamingfurnace of hell—and this I do to please mychildren.I enter the portals of Life with strong crying—andwith a sigh I bid farewell to Life.I am prophet; I am idiot;I am king and shepherd and fisherman.I put my foot on the neck of kings and shepherdsand fishermen and turn them into dust;And with their dust do I besmear myself andmadly dance over green meadows.I am—what ye fear to think of me; I will be—whatye love to dream of me.But I will baffle all your fond expectations andall your clever calculations;In a moment of infinite time I will take the wholeworld by the hand and lift it up to the heavenof my heart.I am the most erring of the High Mother’s children,but one sure instinct I possess—I stand erectthe moment I fall, and by the aid of the veryobstacle that caused my fall do I rise again.I sorrow not over my shortcomings and mysufferings;I hope—yet know that my hopes are too wild tobe realised.In a part of Space called the Corner of Pain Ihave made my home;I breathe the atmosphere of pain—I drink fromthe well of pain—I eat the fruits of the treeof pain—my sleep is troubled by the dreamof pain.I love not Pain—Pain loves me;The whole history of my existence is a constantfleeing from this cruel lover of mine;I have prayed to God to be delivered from him—hasHe heard my prayer?I have worshipped a million lesser divinities—nature-gods,man-gods, god-gods—throughoutthe ages, hoping to be relieved of pain—havethey saved me?I have believed in prophets, saviours, saints—havethey healed me?I have listened to philosophers, scientists,magicians—have they protected me?Kings, statesmen, law-givers have boldly proclaimedthe gospel of peace and security—havethey not themselves plunged thepoisoned dagger into my heart?I am old as Eternity—yet I feel not the burdenof eternal years;I am young as the babe of to-day—yet I am wiseas all the hoary Bible-makers of all the racesof the earth.I am one—I am many; I am spirit, ghost, man,animal, and tree: yet my hidden life flowsever with passionate impetuosity towardsthe distant future above the heads ofnations.To me the least is not less than the greatest; inall I am their sensitiveness to pain—the painof a perpetual new birth of cosmos or ofchaos.I am large, and my largeness moves me to facegreat pain for the avoiding of great pain;I am strong, and my strength lies in discoveringthe source of consolation even in the momentof suffering from suffering itself;I am inured to pain—so that I delight in excitementthat brings pain and inflicts pain.Who brought this pain upon me? Had it beenGod-given, God would one day have takenit away; has He taken it away?Had it been the gift of Nature, I would haverevenged myself upon her; but I feel noenmity to Nature—I desire that she beendless, infinite, that I may ever conquerher;I desire to be charmed by her—yet to be hermaster; I wonder, shall I ever wish to endthis play?
Deeming myself the mother of my pain, I seekthe aid of floods and earthquakes, war andpestilence and famine, to bring destructionon myself; but ever by a mysterious magicI rise from my own ashes and live again;and after my resurrection, sitting in thedawn-light by the waveless ocean, Psychecomes and whispers to my heart: “Notthou, O sweet Humanity, art cause of thineown pain!”And I muse: If I be the father of my sufferings,how can I desire to live again? How can Iinflict pain upon myself? How can I constructmachinery for my own torture?I know that my nature is rooted in contradiction;have I perhaps sought to grow at the costof happiness and peace?Bright Powers in the heavens are watching overmy mysterious destiny. Have they laudedme as good and true and beautiful? Havethey condemned me as bad and false andugly? Who will say whether I am developingaright? Who will say whether thedaily use to which I am constrained to putmy life is not frustrating the Eternal Purpose?I am left alone with my unforeseeing understandingand my ever forward-springinguntamable energy.
My knowledge embraces not the whole reality.Perchance my sensitiveness to pain hassprung from my limited uncomprehendingunderstanding. True, in my own eyes Igrow from ugliness to beauty, from ignoranceto knowledge, from slavery to freedom, fromsin to holiness. I make progress in cultureand civilisation—but I rise to the zenithonly to descend to the nadir.Henceforth I will seek new and inward space formy progress. In the coming age I willseek to bore a tunnel in the spirit, to find aninner path to the Divinity of my Heart.But I will not destroy the bridges which Ihave built during the past ages, linkingthis earth with the distant divinity of sunsand moons and stars.I will be free, glorious, and immortal.
The Voice ceases.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
All this is rhythm.May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies,Grow corn and wisdom and starsBy the throb of rhythm;And Muses from the Milky WayNightly visitThe sleeping poet’s downy pillowBy the law of rhythm;And angels bring him facesFlushed with morning’s rose,Tinted with even’s quiet,By the sweet impulse of rhythm.Wait, O soul!Outside thy door, upon the green,Heaven stands expectant,Waiting to be ushered inBy Rhythm,Just now—or perchance to-morrow.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
All this is rhythm.May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies,Grow corn and wisdom and starsBy the throb of rhythm;And Muses from the Milky WayNightly visitThe sleeping poet’s downy pillowBy the law of rhythm;And angels bring him facesFlushed with morning’s rose,Tinted with even’s quiet,By the sweet impulse of rhythm.Wait, O soul!Outside thy door, upon the green,Heaven stands expectant,Waiting to be ushered inBy Rhythm,Just now—or perchance to-morrow.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
All this is rhythm.May-fields, child-hearts, evening skies,Grow corn and wisdom and starsBy the throb of rhythm;And Muses from the Milky WayNightly visitThe sleeping poet’s downy pillowBy the law of rhythm;And angels bring him facesFlushed with morning’s rose,Tinted with even’s quiet,By the sweet impulse of rhythm.Wait, O soul!Outside thy door, upon the green,Heaven stands expectant,Waiting to be ushered inBy Rhythm,Just now—or perchance to-morrow.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
Friend, dwell thouwithin my ruby-lotus heart of dreams;Friend, see thyselfin the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes;Friend, sport with mein the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings;Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart;Friend, shine in melike sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
Friend, dwell thouwithin my ruby-lotus heart of dreams;Friend, see thyselfin the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes;Friend, sport with mein the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings;Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart;Friend, shine in melike sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
Friend, dwell thouwithin my ruby-lotus heart of dreams;Friend, see thyselfin the diamond mirror of my heart of hopes;Friend, sport with mein the garden-walks of my heart, fringed with everlastings;Friend, sleep thou on the shore of the song-throated ocean of my heart;Friend, shine in melike sunlight in the heart of a rose-bud of jade.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika.”
Thou art the rose,I am the honey;Thou drinkest the lightof the four heavens,And my soul is suffusedwith the rainbow of seven tints;I give myselfto the beesAnd become a songon the wings of windsthat sing to the godsand the fleecy cloudsand the sleeping children of Life.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika” (Dawn-Rhythms).
Thou art the rose,I am the honey;Thou drinkest the lightof the four heavens,And my soul is suffusedwith the rainbow of seven tints;I give myselfto the beesAnd become a songon the wings of windsthat sing to the godsand the fleecy cloudsand the sleeping children of Life.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Usarika” (Dawn-Rhythms).
Thou art the rose,I am the honey;Thou drinkest the lightof the four heavens,And my soul is suffusedwith the rainbow of seven tints;I give myselfto the beesAnd become a songon the wings of windsthat sing to the godsand the fleecy cloudsand the sleeping children of Life.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Usarika” (Dawn-Rhythms).
Snow-blossoms,snow-blossoms,Areyou alive?In your heartI seethe imageofthe heavens,the discofthe sun,Andwhen cloudsveilthe faceofthe skyI seeyour facetstintedwiththe inkofdark sorrow.Children of Varun,sweet guestsoflate Autumn,you toohearthe whispersofImmortality.Likeour village sons,dwellinginlighted cottagesbythe gloom-canopiedgravesoftheir departedancestors.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki” (The Comrade).
Snow-blossoms,snow-blossoms,Areyou alive?In your heartI seethe imageofthe heavens,the discofthe sun,Andwhen cloudsveilthe faceofthe skyI seeyour facetstintedwiththe inkofdark sorrow.Children of Varun,sweet guestsoflate Autumn,you toohearthe whispersofImmortality.Likeour village sons,dwellinginlighted cottagesbythe gloom-canopiedgravesoftheir departedancestors.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki” (The Comrade).
Snow-blossoms,snow-blossoms,Areyou alive?
In your heartI seethe imageofthe heavens,the discofthe sun,
Andwhen cloudsveilthe faceofthe skyI seeyour facetstintedwiththe inkofdark sorrow.
Children of Varun,sweet guestsoflate Autumn,you toohearthe whispersofImmortality.
Likeour village sons,dwellinginlighted cottagesbythe gloom-canopiedgravesoftheir departedancestors.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki” (The Comrade).
Therose of eternityismy heart,thesun-gold honeyismy loveformy Saki,thehoney-beesaremy sighs and songs,theriverismy feelingoflife,andthe lightofmy Saki’seyesisthe true lifeofthe red rose.Whatgrey dewsorblind cankercan harmthisever-smilingroseofmy heart?Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
Therose of eternityismy heart,thesun-gold honeyismy loveformy Saki,thehoney-beesaremy sighs and songs,theriverismy feelingoflife,andthe lightofmy Saki’seyesisthe true lifeofthe red rose.Whatgrey dewsorblind cankercan harmthisever-smilingroseofmy heart?Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
Therose of eternityismy heart,thesun-gold honeyismy loveformy Saki,thehoney-beesaremy sighs and songs,theriverismy feelingoflife,andthe lightofmy Saki’seyesisthe true lifeofthe red rose.
Whatgrey dewsorblind cankercan harmthisever-smilingroseofmy heart?
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki.”
The blueofIndraisthy laughterfrozenintothesky-oceanandthese starsandthis eartharefrozen liliesandweliving creaturesarefrozen bees.O Saki,laughnomore.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
The blueofIndraisthy laughterfrozenintothesky-oceanandthese starsandthis eartharefrozen liliesandweliving creaturesarefrozen bees.O Saki,laughnomore.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
The blueofIndraisthy laughterfrozenintothesky-oceanandthese starsandthis eartharefrozen liliesandweliving creaturesarefrozen bees.
O Saki,laughnomore.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki.”
The shadowofaflying birdacrossthesun’s discfellonthestill floorofmy morning-quietcaveandvanished—Likethe memoryofonewhopassingthroughthebright shadeofmy garden treesofearly daysenteredintothedeep shadowsofanother’sgarden trees.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
The shadowofaflying birdacrossthesun’s discfellonthestill floorofmy morning-quietcaveandvanished—Likethe memoryofonewhopassingthroughthebright shadeofmy garden treesofearly daysenteredintothedeep shadowsofanother’sgarden trees.Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.From “Saki.”
The shadowofaflying birdacrossthesun’s discfellonthestill floorofmy morning-quietcaveandvanished—
Likethe memoryofonewhopassingthroughthebright shadeofmy garden treesofearly daysenteredintothedeep shadowsofanother’sgarden trees.
Śrī Ānanda Āchārya.
From “Saki.”
Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep,Sink in the timeless sleep;One Image stands before my eyes,And thrills my bosom’s deep:One Vision bathes in radiant lightMy spirit’s palace-halls;All stir of hand, all throb of brain,Quivers, and sinks, and falls.My soul fares forth; no fetters nowChain me to this world’s shore.Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare;Let no man wake me more!Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep,Sink in the timeless sleep;One Image stands before my eyes,And thrills my bosom’s deep:One Vision bathes in radiant lightMy spirit’s palace-halls;All stir of hand, all throb of brain,Quivers, and sinks, and falls.My soul fares forth; no fetters nowChain me to this world’s shore.Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare;Let no man wake me more!Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
Ah, Love, I sink in the timeless sleep,Sink in the timeless sleep;One Image stands before my eyes,And thrills my bosom’s deep:One Vision bathes in radiant lightMy spirit’s palace-halls;All stir of hand, all throb of brain,Quivers, and sinks, and falls.My soul fares forth; no fetters nowChain me to this world’s shore.Sleep! I would sleep! In pity spare;Let no man wake me more!
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
Hush thee, hush thee, baby Christ,Lord of all mankind,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my mind.Hush thee, hush thee, Jesus, Lord,Stay of all that art,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my heart.Hush thee, hush thee, home of peace,—Lo! Love lying there!—Thou the happy lullabyOf my care.Hush thee, hush thee, Soul of mine,Setting all men free—Thou the happy lullabyOf the whole of me.Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
Hush thee, hush thee, baby Christ,Lord of all mankind,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my mind.Hush thee, hush thee, Jesus, Lord,Stay of all that art,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my heart.Hush thee, hush thee, home of peace,—Lo! Love lying there!—Thou the happy lullabyOf my care.Hush thee, hush thee, Soul of mine,Setting all men free—Thou the happy lullabyOf the whole of me.Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.
Hush thee, hush thee, baby Christ,Lord of all mankind,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my mind.
Hush thee, hush thee, Jesus, Lord,Stay of all that art,—Thou the happy lullabyOf my heart.
Hush thee, hush thee, home of peace,—Lo! Love lying there!—Thou the happy lullabyOf my care.
Hush thee, hush thee, Soul of mine,Setting all men free—Thou the happy lullabyOf the whole of me.
Nārāyan Vāman Tilak.